Everybody knows about the Dalkey Lobster Festival. It’s coming up in, like, two weeks’ time, and Sorcha is already practising her walk and wave for the Parade of Lobster Queens Past, wearing the sash and crown that she’s held onto ever since her victory in 2008, at the stort of the crash, on a platform of, I want to say, hope?
A lot less is known about the Bray Pollock Festival, which takes place during the first weekend in August every year and is sponsored by Humungous Tackle Fishing Supplies, Incorporating Norman’s Baits, Ballywaltrim Industrial Estate, Bray of all places.
The highlight of the weekend is the crowning of the Wicklow Pollock Queen, which I know a little bit about, having been a celebrity judge of the competition during my glory days as the coach who led Pres Bray to Leinster Schools Senior Cup glory – “Up the focking Pres!” – for the first time since 1932. There’s actually a photograph on the wall of Frank Duff’s of me standing next to the winner, looking a bit shook, because she happened to grab a handful of my orse at the time and I was worried about her husband possibly seeing?
Seriously, I’ve never said a word about Bray that wasn’t 100 per cent warranted.
‘Oh my God! Your dad’s new girlfriend has entered the Wicklow Pollock Queen competition!’
‘My son has opened a museum celebrating criminality. I wish people would stop asking if I’m proud’
‘Fionnuala had a far more significant impact on Foxrock than Samuel Beckett’
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: The old man has a Tesco Clubcord. Jesus, it’s worse than I thought
Anyway, all of this is basically background to the story of what happened last Sunday night. Yeah, no, I was in the cor with Sorcha and we were – believe it or not – crossing The Dorgle on the way to the Mermaid Orts Centre for the crowning of the 2026 winner.
Sorcha smelled something fishy – and it wasn’t 87-year-old Lucelita Loughridge, the oldest surviving Wicklow Pollock Queen, who’d been invited back to perform the ceremonial killing of the biggest fish caught at the festival, which she did by hitting it a firm blow on the top of its head with one of her FitFlops, then cutting its gill arches with a bowie knife, which she just happened to have on her person.
Sorcha was like, “Why are you so interested in going to the festival this year?”
And I was there, “I’m a big noise in these ports, remember? I led a team of chokers, jokers and forty-a-day smokers to the biggest prize in Irish schools rugby. It was made clear to me that I’d never have to put my hand in my pocket in Henry & Rose again.”
“Oh my God!” she went when the penny finally dropped. “Your dad’s new girlfriend has entered, hasn’t she?”
I was like, “If you’re talking about Bernie from Bray of all places, then possibly, yes.”
At that point, we’d already porked the cor and we were making our way into the theatre.
The place was rammers and all of the contestants were lined up on the stage, Bernie being the oldest by at least three decades. We pulled up a seat next to the old man, who was wearing his famous Dryrobe and – yeah, no – the dopey look of a man in love.
“Ross! Sorcha!” he went. “You came!”
I was like, “Yeah, no, only to rip the piss. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Sorcha was there, “Has Bernie been on yet, Chorles?”
He was like, “She’s next, I think.”
Everyone else thought the winner would be the woman who said that clean seas and oceans were the greatest gift we could give to our children
Which she was? The compere put his orm around her shoulder and introduced her to the audience, then he cued up the first question.
He went, “Question number one. A fun question. If you could compare yourself to any type of fish, what would it be?”
“A focking trout!” I shouted, then I ended up being shushed by the audience, my heroics with Pres Bray suddenly forgotten.
Rugby is a cruel, cruel mistress.
Bernie went, “I don’t know about a type of fish, but if you come back to my plaice, I’ll show you that I’m quite the catch!”
The audience was, like, shocked into silence. And this is Bray, bear in mind. These people have seen things we’ll never see.
“Oh my God,” I went, “it’s not Blind focking Date!”
But the old man was there, “Excellent answer!”
Confused, the compere dude was like, “Er, question number two. How can we do better when it comes to safeguarding the future of our seas and our oceans?”
Without missing a beat, Bernie went, “I don’t know about safeguarding the future of our seas and our oceans, but I’m slippery when wet – and I’m the one fish you’ll really want to reel in!”
Again, there was, like, silence, except for the sound of the old man clapping and shouting, “Bravo!”
Out of the corner of her mouth, Sorcha went, “It’s very different to Dalkey, isn’t it, Ross?”
And I was like, “They should put that in Latin on the town crest.”
The compere went, “Third and final question. If you were to be named the Wicklow Pollock Queen for 2026, how would you use your role to highlight the challenges facing the county?”
Bernie was like, “I don’t know about highlighting the challenges facing the county, but if you were to point your rod in my direction, I can guarantee… you’ll get a bite!”
“The woman’s an absolute tonic! An absolute, bloody-well tonic!” the old man shouted, clapping his two hands together, but he was the only one.
The judges – yeah, no – retired to consider their verdict.
“I’d give her ten focking years,” I went, “with no possibility of parole.”
Sorcha was like, “Oh my God, Chorles, it was so clever the way she subverted the whole idea of it being a beauty contest,” because she’s always been a crawler.
The old man was like, “I have a very good feeling about it.”
He was deluded, though. Everyone else thought the winner would be the woman who said that clean seas and oceans were the greatest gift we could give to our children.
Anyway, 20 minutes later, the result was announced. The compere stepped out into the middle of the stage and went, “This year’s Wicklow Pollock Festival Queen is… Bernie from Bray of all places!”
The audience stayed silent. They were in shock. I looked at the old man. He was wearing the same face as when I watched him backheel his ball into the hole in Portmornock to claim he’d got a hole-in-one.
I was there, “You fixed it, didn’t you? You bribed the actual judges!”
And he went, “Don’t be absurd, Kicker… But do you think you could mention Humungous Tackle Fishing Supplies, Incorporating Norman’s Baits, Ballywaltrim Industrial Estate, in your column next week?”
