I’m there, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Yeah, no, we’re in the cor, on our way to the Mount Anville Past and Present Parents Association’s “Prayers and Prosecco Morning”, which was originally held in 2003 to raise vital funds for a helicopter landing pad on the roof of the school concert hall. And I couldn’t be more nervous if Eben Etzebeth had walked into his kitchen and caught me urinating in the oat milk.
I’m there, “Sorcha, I honestly don’t think we can just saunter in here like nothing has happened.”
But Sorcha – coming from one of those great south Dublin families that’s lacking the embarrassment gene – has decided to just style it out. She throws her brand-new Hyundai Ioniq into a porking space and goes, “What are you talking about?”
‘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
I’m there, “Er, our daughter slashed the cor tyres of maybe 30 or 40 of the parents who are going to be here?”
“Ross, nothing has been proven yet.”
“Sorcha, have you forgotten how fast news travels in our world? You squeeze out a fort in Morton’s of Ralenagh and you’re the talk of Dalkey Village before you’ve even said, ‘Who did that?’”
“What I mean is a lot of members of the Past and Present Parents Association are members of the legal profession. Which means they respect due process.”
“Sorcha, I’m genuinely, genuinely worried about your grip on reality right now.”
She throws on Katy Perry’s Roar and storts applying red vornish to her nails, two things I’ve heard her describe before as, like, empowering?
She goes, “It’s like the meme says – feel the fear and do it anyway.”
She blows on her nails and goes, “Are you ready?”
Yeah, no, you sort of ruined it there at the end with your lack of rugby knowledge, but I’m still going to accept the compliment
I tell her no and I try to explain exactly how I’m feeling. She goes, “Who’s Eben Etzebeth?”
And I’m supposed to be the clueless one?
I’m there, “It doesn’t matter. I’m just using him to illustrate the point that I’m crapping myself here. What if it all kicks off?”
She goes, “Ross, how many times did you face hostile crowds on the rugby pitch?”
I’m there, “Excuse me?” as she blows on her nails to dry them.
She goes, “I’m just saying, I remember you playing against the likes of Blackrock, Belvedere, Clongowes–”
I’m there, “Michael’s,” because I never, ever forget.
She’s like, “You’d have hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people – oh my God – absolutely hating on you? Calling you a w**ker and a b****rd and whatever else.”
She knows what buttons to press with me. I feel the corners of my mouth turn upwards into a smile. I was great.
She’s there, “And you’d just place the ball, take your four steps backwards, and your two to the side–”
“Three to the side,” I go.
She’s like, “–and despite all this – oh my God – seething hatred around you, you’d still manage to kick a try.”
“Yeah, no, you sort of ruined it there at the end with your lack of rugby knowledge, but I’m still going to accept the compliment. Fine, let’s do this thing.”
We get out of the cor.
“And anyway,” she goes, “it’s prayers and prosecco, Ross. These people are going to be in a state of grace.”
I’m there, “A state of grace?” even managing a little chuckle to myself. “It’s focking Goatstown, Sorcha.”
I end up getting the surprise of my life, though. We walk into that room and – yeah, no – every conversation stops. Mallorie Kennedy – the mother of Honor’s classmate Courage – goes, “Sorcha, we didn’t expect to see you here.”
I had three or four moves in my famous Rugby Tactics Book that would have blown open the All Blacks defence in those final minutes – if anyone had bothered their holes to ask me
Sorcha’s like, “And why wouldn’t we be here? We’ve every right as parents–”
But Rebecca Leahy – as in, like, Diva Leahy’s old dear – goes, “She wasn’t attacking you, Sorcha. We were, all of us, saying how difficult it must be for you right now. And I know you probably don’t wish to discuss it – sub judice and all that – but we are all super-sensitive to what you must be going through at the moment.”
“Every single one of us here has one thing in common,” Bryan Lessing – as in, like, Hester Lessing’s old man – goes.
I’m there, “Membership of Riverview?”
But he’s like, “No, we’ve all parented a teenage girl. And we all know how difficult a job it is.”
Rachel Lynch – we’re talking Eponine Lynch’s old dear – hands me a glass of bubbles. Yeah, no, I’m happy to see that we arrived too late for the prayers port of the morning. I knock back a mouthful, still buzzing off the pep-talk I got from Sorcha, even though she wouldn’t know a rugby ball if she found one in her lobster bisque.
I’m chatting to Bryan and he’s asking me if I was disappointed with the rugby result. I’m tell him no, I thought they gave it their all, even though I had three or four moves in my famous Rugby Tactics Book that would have blown open the All Blacks defence in those final minutes – if anyone had bothered their holes to ask me.
“What a shame,” he goes.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, thanks,” still feeling a bit full of myself. “And thanks again for being cool about the whole Honor-slashing-all-your-tyres things. Even though nothing’s been proven.”
“Hey, let’s respect the process,” he goes. “At the end of the day, it’s just a set of tyres. I only hope the poor girl doesn’t end up damaged by being put through a court case.”
I’m there, “Ah, she’s damaged anyway. Again, allegedly.”
We end up staying for, like, an hour, before Sorcha arrives over and says we should hit the road. As we’re leaving, she’s like, “See what I mean by a state of grace? These are, like, good people, Ross,” and I end up having to agree with her because I’ve drunk the guts of two bottles of the Villa Sandi.
And then we turn the corner into the cor pork and neither of us is ready for the sight that greets us. I’ve been around some corners in my time but nothing could prepare me for this. The Ioniq is missing its four tyres. It’s up on blocks and on the driver’s side someone has spray-painted, “I’m Sorcha Lalor! My Daughter Is The SUV Avenger!”
Sorcha goes, “Ross, look over your shoulder. Are they all looking out the window, laughing?”
But I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know that they are.
I whip out my phone and I go, “I’ll call us an Uber.”
