“What the fock?” Oisinn goes. “Are you serious?”
I’m there, “Oh, I’m serious all right. I’m as serious as – well, you know what.”
He goes, “A living funeral? Where did this idea even come from?”
I’m there, “From my brother slash half-brother. Apparently, they’re big in the States. And when have that crowd ever come up with a bad idea?”
Oisinn goes, ‘Dude, you’re saying goodbye. You do realise that? You’re saying goodbye to your old dear’
Brett goes, ‘She’s close to the end, Ross. I was thinking we should arrange a living funeral for her’
I’m always telling Sorcha to tone down the southside when we come out to Bray but she never listens
‘I haven’t really been living before now,’ Brett tells his wife. ‘Ross has slept with more than 800 women’
I’m having this conversation, by the way, while I’m on the treadmill, running uphill on the six-Ks-per-hour setting. I’m sweating like a man on nine penalty points, but I don’t want the goys to think I’m out of shape, so I’m letting my body feel the burn and I’m, like, grinning through the pain.
JP goes, “I think a living funeral is a great idea,” and he’s saying that as a man who’s gone back to study for, like, the priesthood? “Funerals are a time when all of the people you ever knew in your life gather together to say wonderful things about you. And to miss that – and by just a few days – is a terrible, terrible shame.”
Christian’s like, “I agree with JP. Why do we insist on saying goodbye to the people we love after they’re gone when we could so easily do it while they’re still with us?”
The dude in the long, white coat – yeah, no, I’m guessing he’s a doctor? – tips over and presses stop on the treadmill.
I’m there, “Is that it? I could do an hour on this thing – not a problem,” even though my legs are like rubber and my hort is beating like a focking snare drum.
The doctor goes, “No, five minutes is more than enough,” as he rips the electrodes off my chest, taking quite a bit of hair with them. “Your heart is in good shape.”
Not that there was any doubt about it.
Yeah, no, this is us in Blackrock Clinic, by the way. On the first day of July every year, the anniversary of Fionn’s cancer diagnosis, the stors of the Castlerock College Leinster Schools Senior Cup-winning team of 1999 get together for a full body check – and we’re talking the Platinum Package here.
Ross, do you have any idea how popular your old dear is?
I look forward to it like I look forward to a jazz brunch, which is to say that I absolutely convince myself that I’m going to enjoy it, then when I get there I remember that I don’t really like jazz – no one does – and I’m not even that fussed about brunch.
So – yeah, no – they’ve tested our eyesight and our hearing, our bloods, our horts and our livers and the famous prostate exam is next.
Fionn goes, “So how does it work? You get all of your old dear’s friends together in one room and they, what, pay tribute to her?”
I’m there, “That’s exactly it.”
He’s like, “It’s a great idea. But is she–?”
I’m there, “What?”
He goes, “–compos mentis, Ross.”
I’m like, “English, Dude.”
He’s there, “How bad is her dementia? Does she know what’s going on?”
I’m like, “She has good days and bad days. There’s times when she’s embarrassing me in front of the nurses by talking about, you know, walking in on me as a teenager while I was beating up the one-eyed Trappist. Then there’s other times when she has literally no idea who I even am?”
Christian goes, “Fock.”
And I’m there, “Fock is right.”
Christian’s like, “I hope she has one of her good days – because there’ll be some crowd at it.”
I go, “Do you think?”
And he’s there, “Ross, do you have any idea how popular your old dear is?”
I’m like, “Not really, no.”
He goes, “Even just fans of her books. What was the first one called again?”
I’m there, “Criminal Assets,” and I’ve no idea why I even know that, except that it was a bonkbuster and it was loosely based on the – and these are her words? – sexual reawakening she experienced after my old man was sent to the squirrel cage for making corrupt payments to councillors to – yeah, no – materially contravene the County Development Plan?
The doctor dude goes, ‘Okay, it’s prostate time – who’s first up?’
Christian goes, “And then there was the misery lit novel she wrote during the 2008 economic crisis,” and it’s difficult to know whether the dude is ripping the piss or not.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, it was called Mom, I’ve Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes.”
He’s like, “That was it. Those books were huge, Ross.”
I’m there, “Yeah, fock knows why.”
The doctor dude goes, “Okay, it’s prostate time – who’s first up?”
I’m there, “Me. Want to get it over and done with.”
JP goes, “And what about that cookery show she made for RTÉ, Ross?”
I’m there, “You mean FO’CK Cooking?” as I whip down my chinos and assume the position. “Yeah, no, she loved making that show – until they told her to stort cooking with ingredients that better reflected the economic realities in ... MEATBALL RIGATONI!!!”
Oisinn goes, “Are you all right, Dude?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, it’s just that it’s never – holy fock – not a surprise? Jesus, that’s, em–,” and suddenly – probably to take my mind off what’s happening – I stort naming the 15 players that storted for Leinster against Leicester in the 2009 Heineken Cup final. “Cian Healy, Bernard Jackman, Stan Wright, Leo – obviously, Big Mal, Rocky Elsom–”
“All done,” the doctor goes and I hear the snap of a rubber glove.
I’m there, “Heroes to a man. Jesus, that never gets easier, does it?”
Oisinn goes, “Ross, do you think you’ll be okay?”
I’m there, “In terms of?”
He’s like, “Dude, you’re saying goodbye to her. You do realise that, don’t you? You’re going to be saying goodbye to your old dear?”
And I’m there, “Yeah, no, hopefully, I’ll be okay, provided–” and I suddenly hear my voice break. “I don’t think I’m ready to– Shane Jennings, Jamie Heaslip, Chris Whitaker–”
Fionn goes, “We’ll be there, Ross – just like all of you were there for me,” and it’s amazing – yeah, no – to see the dude looking so well, he’s actually glowing, after all the shit he went through.
Oisinn goes, “Do you mind if I quote something that Fr Fehily used to say?”
I’m there, “I’d nearly insist on it.”
And he’s like, “In our togetherness, castles are built.”
