So I wake up in the hotel in Nantes to find a letter on my bedside table, which turns out to be from – yeah, no – my old man? He says he tried to wake me, but I was sleeping rather heavily – in other words, I’m still pissed from the night before – but he’s unfortunately had to go back to Ireland on what he calls seagull business (“quote-unquote”) and he’s going to have to miss the match against Tonga tomorrow. Then he mentions that he’s given his ticket to a mutual friend who just happened to be holidaying in France and I’ll be absolutely delighted when I find out who it is.
I think no more of it. Like I said, I’m in the horrors. I tip downstairs to the restaurant and I order a full Irish in broken English while flirting with Claudette, one of the waitresses, asking her if anyone has ever told her that she looks like Olga Kurylenko from a distance. She says no. As a matter of fact, she’s never heard of her, so I show her some of the 70 or 80 images of her that I have saved in my phone.
She goes, “Non, non, non – I do not look like this!” and – full disclosure? – she doesn’t, but I’ve made her day, and she’s in the process of keying her number into my phone when I look up and see a sight that almost stops my literally hort. My father-in-law is staring at me from the other side of the breakfast buffet table.
There’s a little bit of Sorcha’s old man that’s never quite forgiven me for turning my trouser pockets inside-out and doing the famous elephant impression that was my porty piece back in the day
“The fock are you doing here?” I go, because – yeah, no – we’ve never got on.
‘We’ve no idea what caused the fire. And we’re sticking to that story’
‘People in the crowd are staring at Honor like she’s a cold sore on debs night’
‘The thought of booking a table for one at Shanahan’s on the Green got me through my prison sentence’
JP is staring at me like I’ve said I’m really enjoying his old dear’s OnlyFans account
He’s there, “If you must know, I’m looking for your father,” and that’s when the penny suddenly drops.
I’m like, “It’s you? You’re the one he gave his ticket to?”
He’s there, “His message simply said that he had a spare ticket to the match if I wanted –” and then goes, “Oh, God, no!”
There’s a little bit of Sorcha’s old man that’s never quite forgiven me for getting hammered on tequila in the Pearl Brasserie one famous night, then turning my trouser pockets inside-out and doing the famous elephant impression that was my porty piece back in the day.
I’m there, “I don’t want to sit next to you.”
And he goes, “How much fun do you think it would be for me?”
In that moment, I realise that Claudette is still standing there. She goes, “Here is my number on your phone,” letting me down in a major way. “If you would like to go for a drink, I would very much like that.”
He just glowers at me.
I’m there, “Sorry, Claudette, I think you might have got the wrong end of the stick,” and she looks at me in a confused way before walking off.
I saw you at a rugby match once. You asked at the top of your voice did the ball have to be thrown backwards or could it be thrown forwards as well
I’m there, “You know fock-all about rugby.”
And he goes, “The same as you know about marital fidelity.”
I’m there, “I saw you at a rugby match once. Ireland versus South Africa in the Aviva. You were sitting in your complimentary seat and you asked at the top of your voice did the ball have to be thrown backwards or could it be thrown forwards as well.”
“A legitimate enough question,” he tries to go.
I’m there, “You were sitting two rows in front of the Triple Crown-winning team of 1982. You’ll never know how close I came to beating you unconscious with my rolled-up programme and throwing you over the edge of the West Stand Upper.”
He goes, “Well, this has been a wasted journey.”
And I’m there, “Hey, don’t let me keep you.”
It’s at that exact moment that my phone ends up ringing? Yeah, no, it’s Sorcha. She goes, “Oh my God, my dad is on his way to Nantes!”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, he’s standing over my table here. My old man gave him his ticket to the match.”
She’s like, “What a stroke of luck!”
And I’m there, “For who, Sorcha?”
“The word is whom,” he goes – that’s pretty much the measure of the man.
He goes, “Two pints it is then,” and as I stand up he goes, “So is your friend Tommy Sexton playing tomorrow?”
Sorcha’s there, “Please, Ross, I know you two have never exactly been bosom buddies but this could be an opportunity for you to put it behind you. Who are Ireland playing again?”
I’m there, “Tonga.”
She’s like, “And is that an actual World Cup match or is it, like, a friendly?”
Seriously – and he thinks she’s the one who married beneath herself.
I’m there, “It’s rugby, Sorcha. For the one millionth time, there’s no such thing as a –”
She goes, “Put me on to him there.”
I hand my phone over to the dude. He doesn’t say anything – I’m especially worried about him telling her about the Claudette misunderstanding – but he just listens, occasionally going, “Yes ... Okay ... Yes, I’ll try my best ... Yes, Dorling,” before hanging up.
He hands me back my phone and goes, “Sorcha has asked me to let bygones be bygones – just for the next 36 hours or so. I’m prepared to do it if you are.”
I’m there, “Dude, you need to get over the whole me-taking-my-mickey-out on the night of your 25th wedding anniversary thing. Hang on, what do you mean, the next 36 hours? You’re saying we have to, like, hang out with each other until the match tomorrow?”
He goes, “Am I really that awful? You never know, miracles do happen – we might actually enjoy each other’s company.”
I’m there, “I was planning to go boozing today.”
Word for word, he goes, “Well, I can put away the sherbets like the next man.”
I’m there, “Don’t say sherbets in my company ever again. I’ll tell you what, fock the breakfast, go into the bor there and order me a pint of the usual. I’m going up to my room to throw my Ireland jersey on me.”
He goes, “Two pints it is then,” and as I stand up he goes, “So is your friend Tommy Sexton playing tomorrow?”
And that, understandably enough, ends up being the final straw. I say nothing, just go back to my room and stuff everything into my bag. Then I make my way over to the window. I look down. It’s a high enough drop. Yeah, no, I’m on the second floor. But it has to be done. Some things are more important than family. And rugby happens to be one of them.
