Sorcha’s in the shower when her phone all of a sudden rings.
"Ross," she goes, "will you get that?" and I roll my eyes because I'm trying to watch Racing against Exeter, but it's the third time in, like, five minutes that I've found myself listening to Katy Perry's Firework, which has been her ringtone ever since she applied for promotion as Head of Something, Something, Something (EMEA region) in LinkedIn.
I pick the thing up and I’m about to fock it at the wall when I just so happen to look at her Caller ID and I see the photograph of her old man, dressed up for Bloomsday – or, as I call it, Halloween for knobs.
It'd be typical for him to ring during the biggest match in the European club rugby calendar. But that's what I'm up against, a man who wouldn't know a rugby ball if one hit him in the face – which one did, I'm just remembering, shortly after this photograph was taken. It was entirely my fault. As Sorcha said, I shouldn't have been throwing the old Gilbert around at her Ulysses fancy dress porty, especially with the gorden so full of people. And it was a pretty terrible pass, which was strangely out of character for me.
I answer the phone doing a really bad impression of my wife. I'm like, "Hello!" in a sort of, like, high-pitched voice, which wouldn't fool anyone in normal circumstances, except he's up to literally ninety.
“Sorcha!” he goes. “Sorcha, you have to save me from this awful woman!” and I know straight away that he’s talking about my old dear.
I say nothing. Don’t need to, because the dude is only, like, warming up.
He’s there, “I’m talking about your idiot husband’s mother.”
What did I tell you?
He goes, "Oh, Dorling, what am I going to do?" and I can hear that the dude is – hilariously – crying? "I was only using the woman to try to bring your mother to her senses. But I couldn't bear it anymore. The narcissism. The snobbery. The frittatas – every bloody morning. And the endless blithering. Oh, the woman is insufferable. I can see where he gets it from now."
I’m just like, “Hmmm,” again in a high-pitched voice, not committing myself one way or the other.
"Well, this morning, I decided I couldn't stand listening to her for a minute longer. I made up my mind to drive down to Brittas Bay and lay my cards on the table. Tell your mother that I love her and that that business with that artist woman happened years ago and meant nothing anyway. I got into the car-"
“So-called cor,” I very nearly say – the dude is driving a 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe – but I manage to somehow stop myself.
He's there, "I got into the car and I got onto the M11. I had it all planned out – what I was going to say to wrest her away from your ignoramus father-in-law. And if it came to blows, well, let's just say, you wouldn't have found Edmund Lalor cowering behind the door when the gunsmoke cleared."
I can actually make out her drunken wailing in the background.
He really is a tool – and it's not just the zero interest in rugby thing.
"But then I was pulled over by the Guards," he goes, "driving through Kilmacanogue. A girl – not a week out of Templemore, by the looks of her – asked me if I was leaving the county for reasons of work or education. I said no, I was leaving the county for reasons of love. She said that leaving the county for reasons of love wasn't permitted under the Level 3 restrictions and that I should return to Dublin immediately. I told her I was a solicitor – but, well, that cut no ice with the girl. I had no choice. I came back here to the apartment."
In focking Smithfield. Good enough for him.
"And then," he goes, "about half an hour ago, she showed up outside, demanding to be let in."
I can actually make out her drunken wailing in the background.
“I told her from the balcony that I couldn’t let her in,” he goes. “There’s a nationwide ban on visitors to other people’s homes, with the exception of visits for essential purposes. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘such as providing care to the elderly – and let’s be honest, you’re no spring chicken, Edmund.’ She’s saying she’s made one of her famous beef and vodka casseroles. She’s making quite a scene. Oh, I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake, Sorcha.”
Of course, I could tell him that, down in Brittas Bay, my old man has reached pretty much the same conclusion? But then where would the fun be in that?
He’s like, “Oh, Dorling, what am I going to do?”
And I go, “Well, you can stop calling me Dorling for storters.”
There’s, like, silence on the other end of the phone – so much so that I can hear the old dear’s hysterical voice going, “Better men than you have eaten my one-pot stews!” a line that for some reason makes me feel like I might never have a sexual thought again.
He goes, “P… P… P… P… Put my daughter on the phone this instant!”
And I’m like, “She’s b… b… b… b… busy. But for what it’s worth, Dude, I can tell you that you’d be wasting your time driving down to Brittas. My old man and your missus are all loved up.”
“What?”
“Carrying on like a couple of teenagers – if you catch my drift!”
"How dare you listen into a conversation that wasn't supposed to involve you!"
“Dude, do you honestly think I’ve nothing better to do? It’s the European Champions Cup final – although you wouldn’t know Racing against Exeter from, I don’t know, racing at Exeter. Actually, that’s a good line.”
“I want you to know,” he tries to go, “I’m about to call the Guards and tell them that your mother is creating a public nuisance.”
I'm like, "Dude, do what you want – she's your girlfriend," and I hang up on him and switch off the phone.
A few seconds later, Sorcha steps out of the shower.
“Who was that?” she goes.
And I’m like, “No one. Some randomer wondering did we want to switch our broadband provider.”