For, like, 30 seconds, I’m as quiet as Thomond Pork since 2019 and the dude ends up having to repeat himself.
He goes, “Ross, did you hear me? I said this is Brett. I’m your, I suppose, half-brother?”
I’m sitting in the cor, in the Killiney Hill cor pork, still trying to, like, process it. I’m actually shaking, like Thomond Pork used to shake – again, before 2019.
He’s like, “Look, I’ve obviously caught you at a bad moment. Do you want me to ring you back at a more convenient time?”
‘I most certainly do have an American accent,’ I tell my supposed half-brother. ‘I’m from south Dublin’
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘I hate my children too. Like, how could three kids of mine turn out to be such dicks?’
Most schools fear Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara like they would a typhoid outbreak
I’m there to Honor, ‘You’ve never been good at school. I always thought you took after me’
I’m there, “No, it’s all good, Brett. I’m just distracted here, watching my kids kick the shit out of each other.”
He’s like, “Oh, how many kids do you have?”
And I go, “Definitely five.”
He’s there, “What do you mean by definitely five?”
I’m like, “As in, five is the number I’ve paid to feed and clothe. But I’d be a focking idiot to think there aren’t more of them out there. Hennessy, the old man’s solicitor, tidies up a lot of my messes and keeps it all on a need-to-know basis.”
He laughs like he thinks I’m joking.
“Sense of humour,” he goes. “Okay, that’s very Irish.”
I’m like, “So what about you? How many kids do you–?”
He’s there, “Two. Boy and a girl. Both in their 20s now. Molly’s at Columbia and Dorian’s at Princeton.”
I’m like, “What are they?”
He goes, “Are you serious?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, Columbia and Princeton – what even are they?”
“Er, they’re colleges,” he goes.
I’m there, “I’ll take your word for it.”
I definitely don’t feel like we’ve clicked yet.
He goes, “So, er, is that an American accent I’m hearing?”
I’m there, “It most certainly is, Brett.”
He’s like, “Oh, so you’ve lived in the States?”
I’m there, “Not since I did my J1-er in Ocean City 25 years ago. But I’m from south Dublin. Everyone here talks like this.”
He goes, “Oh, right – wow!”
I think he’s more impressed by me than I am by him.
He’s there, “So, em, what do you do, Ross?”
I’m like, “Okay, define do.”
He goes, “I mean for a living.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh?
I’m there, “Fock-all, Brett. Sweet fock-all.”
He goes, “Sorry, did you say fock-all?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, my old man’s rolling in it. So me and gainful employment have led what you might call happy but very much exclusive lives. What about you? You don’t actually work, do you?”
“Yeah,” he goes, “I’m actually an ophthalmic surgeon.”
Ross, I’ve been in touch with Fionnuala for, like, years
— Brett
I don’t know what that is and neither do I ask. But he obviously got his brains from his old man.
“Fair focks,” I just go. “Fair focking focks.”
He’s like, “Er, thanks.”
I suddenly shout, “If you put a dent in my cor, I’ll kick you so focking hord that you’ll be wearing your orse as a hat.”
He goes, “Excuse me?”
I’m like, “Sorry, Dude, I’m just talking to my kids here,” because Brian and Leo are standing on the bonnet of the X5, going at each other toe-to-toe.
He goes, “So, em, I guess the inevitable question is: do you want to meet up?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, whatever. Whereabouts in the States are you living?”
He goes, “New York.”
And I’m there, “New York, New York! The Lone Stor State!”
“Okay,” he goes, “I’m beginning to get a handle on your sense of humour.”
I wasn’t even joking.
He’s like, “As it happens, I have to go to London for a medical conference in three weeks. I could maybe swing by Ireland on my way home.”
I’m there, “No, yeah, it’d be good to hook up all right. Do you want me to mention it to the old dear? Just to warn you, she’s in a nursing home. Half the time, she doesn’t even know who I am.”
There’s, like, silence on the other end of the line.
I’m like, “Dude, I’m sorry if that comes as a shock to you.”
He goes, “Ross, I’ve been in touch with Fionnuala for, like, years.”
I’m there, “Excuse me?”
He’s like, “We reconnected. Many, many years ago.”
I’m there, “She never said anything to me.”
He goes, “She’s been here, like, five or six times. She’s even met her grandchildren.”
You focking scrote-faced, hairy-lipped blobfish!
— Ross
My famous mind is suddenly cranking to life. I’m remembering all those times she went to the States to have her bra-line lifted or her buccal fat sucked out of her face and now I’m wondering was she really going to visit her secret son.
I’m there, “Certain things are storting to add up now. Like, she never came home looking any better than when she left.”
He goes, “Well, like I said, we’ve been in each other’s lives for a number of years now.”
I’m there, “You focking scrote-faced, hairy-lipped blobfish!”
He’s like, “Sorry, Ross, are you talking to your children again?”
And I’m there, “No, I’m not, Dude. No, I am not.”
He goes, “Look, we’ve obviously got a lot of catching up to do.”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, it definitely sounds like it. Here, back up the hord drive for a minute. If you’ve been in touch with my old dear for years – and she’s visited you in the actual States – why did you never get in touch with me?”
Now he’s the one who’s silent?
I’m like, “Dude, are you still there?”
He goes, “Look, Ross, the truth is that Fionnuala never told me that I had a brother.”
I’m there, “Okay, I’m not sure if something is being lost in translation here. Are you saying she didn’t mention that she had a son who played rugby to a very nearly professional standard?”
I don’t know why I throw that bit in about rugby. Maybe him mentioning that he’s a something-something surgeon has me feeling like a possible underachiever.
He goes, “I’m really sorry to tell you this, Ross, but she never mentioned you in any of our meetings, or even our phone calls.”
I’m there, “That hatchet-faced horse-beast.”
He’s like, “As a matter of fact, when I asked her if she had any more children after me, she said ‘Thankfully no’.”
