Honor's ortistic streak ended up on her face, but it was, like, impossible to remove and JP's new bird really didn't see the funny side of the two Ronnies, writes Ross O'Carroll-Kelly.
Kasia? What kind of a name is that? "Polish," JP goes and suddenly I'm like that focking Celine Dion, as in it's all coming back to me now. See, ever since we got back from France, JP's been banging on about this bird he met at some - I don't know - foreign property conference in, like, the RDS. I just didn't expect her to be - and this isn't meant to sound racist - a non-national.
So he's giving it loads, roysh, about how cool she is and how she looks like Petra Nemcova but I'm freezing my towns off here on DúLaoghaire seafront and I'm John B to get inside somewhere.
I probably should add, roysh, that I'm doing the whole K Fed thing today - Sunday's basically my day with Honor - and I've only nipped down to Meadows and Whatever-the-fock to get Fionn a new spatula, after breaking the last one during a night of non-committal fun with a bird called Cora, who works in PR and has an orse like Jerry Flannery.
"Fancy hitting Mao," I go, "grab a quick nosebag," and JP looks at his watch and goes, "Me and Kas, we were going to, like, walk the pier. I suppose I'm a bit early, though. I'll send her a text, tell her where we are."
Ten minutes later, roysh, we're wrapping our faces around a couple of plates of five-spice chicken with a side order of pumpkin spring rolls and I'm listening to him banging on about his new love. And not a Charlie Bird about the old one, by the way - as in God? Honor, it must be said, is being really good. I've given her one of them thick black morkers and also a menu and she's scribbling away merrily, like a knacker on the Nightlink.
I tell JP that I know where she gets that from, as in the ortistic streak? Sorcha finished seventh in the Texaco ort competition at school, with this amazing picture of a seal being basically clubbed to death. And she had, like, a speech bubble coming out of its mouth, saying, "Why?" JP's not listening, though. He's texting Kasia, who it turns out is at, like, Sandycove Dort Station and should be here any minute. "Now, Ross," he goes, suddenly all serious. "Kasia's very, em, political. She takes it very seriously. But I really like this girl, so try not to . . ." and just as I'm about to tell him, roysh, that he's bang out of order, he's suddenly looking at Honor with, like, total horror, going, "Oh! My! God!" I look at her, roysh, and she's got what would have to be described as a smudge of black morker on her face, just above her top lip. I'm like, "What's the problem? You think Van Gogh didn't get the odd splash when he painted . . . whatever the fock he painted." JP's there, "Ross, it looks like a Hitler moustache," and I end up laughing out loud, roysh, because it actually does.
JP's not laughing, though.
I'm there, "Sorry - your point is?" and he's like, "My point is, have you any idea what Poland suffered during the second World War?" Ask a stupid question . . .
"Six million dead," he goes, not waiting for an answer, "half of them Polish Jews, murdered in places like Auschwitz . . ." "Dude, chillax," I go. "I'll wash it off," and I pour some water onto my napkin, roysh, and stort scrubbing Honor's upper lip.
It's no good, though - it won't come off.
JP's sort of, like, examining the morker. "Ross," he all of a sudden goes, "it says here, semi-permanent." Uh-oh...
I'm like, "There's basically nothing I can do then," but quick as a flash, he goes, "You could turn it into a full moustache." I'm like, "Whoa - you're asking me to draw on my daughter's face?" and he goes, "Well, there's already a moustache there - just thicken it out a bit. Seriously, Ross, Kasia's grandfather died defending Warsaw," like that's somehow my actual fault?
But, like a fool, I agree to do it. I take Honor to the baby changing room, where I end up getting the morker and giving her a big, droopy Ronnie, thicker than a DBS repeat.
Of course she's laughing away, thinking it's great fun.
Then we go back to the table. I literally haven't even sat down, roysh, when JP storts up again. "No, no, no," he goes, putting his head in his hands and giving it the full drama queen treatment.
I'm there, "What?" He's like, "Now, she looks like Stalin!" I'm there, "Who?" and he looks at me, genuinely shocked, and goes, "You've never heard of Josef Stalin?" and I'm like, "What the fock is this - Blackboard Jungle?" He's there, "You're saying you've no idea what horrors the Polish people suffered under Soviet occupation?" and I'm there, "Dude, what's the point in knowing loads of shit when there's, like, the internet?" to which he has no basic answer.
Except to go, "You're going to have to tack on a beard." I'm like, "A beard? Whoa - forget it," but he's there, "Ross, Kasia will be here in, like, two minutes. She sees that moustache and she'll go postal . . ." I'm there, "She's not the only one. Bear in mind, I've got to bring this kid back to Sorcha at some stage. Drawing a beard and moustache on her is hordly going to help my case for joint custody." He's there, "Lots of kids get their faces painted, Ross." I'm like, "Yeah, as lions and tigers - not Sébastien Chabal . . ." But by then, roysh, the argument is irrelevant because Kasia's suddenly standing over the table and, though she is an actual a ringer for Petra Nemcova, she does not look a happy camper.
"Em, she drew it herself," is all JP can think to say.
But Kasia hasn't even noticed the Ronnie. "You theenk thees is funny," she goes. "To breeng me to a restaurant that is named after the beegest mass murderer in heestory . . ." That's weird. I actually thought Mao was the Chinese word for, like, food? "Worse than Heetler, worse than Stalin," she goes, shaking her head. "I neffah want to see you eggen," and then she just, like, storms out.
We sit there in, like, total silence for 10 minutes before I eventually go, "I suppose if there's, like, a moral to this story, it's birds and how you never really know what's going to set them off." JP just nods, staring into space, traumatised.
I'm there, "So do you still want me to do that beard?"
TXT ROSS - Readers in need of advice can text Ross at 087-9773781
Some dude who doesn't give his name goes, "Girls in Dalkey performin a play which is set in Ballymun needed a dialect coach to enable dem to speak in a nortside accent. Like, duh?" Proper order, as well. What's the play - Annie, Get Your Sawn-Off?
Some dude who obviously went to Terenure goes, "I heard your old school Castlerock refused to play a circumcised player. Cos in order to play for Castlerock, you have to be a complete . . ." Do not even think about finishing that sentence.
Some dude who doesn't give his name is just there, "It's a gud job ur wheels r history - all dem bog guards wud hav a field day wi u still havin a provisional licence!" Which reminds me, stay home on November 19th - I'm sitting the test again. Eighth time lucky.