I think I’m on the record somewhere as saying that I’d prefer to be remembered as a great father than a great number ten. It’s total horseshit, of course. I’d much prefer if people talked about my abilities with a rugby ball after I’m gone. But being a brilliant, brilliant parent is sort of, like, my superpower? As in, I’ve no actual control over it. And I don’t know why I’ve been given it. It’s just a fact that I have to accept.
So it’s, like, three o’clock in the afternoon and I’m having my breakfast when Honor walks into the kitchen. I can tell instantly that there’s something wrong because she hasn’t called me a loser, or a sap, or any of the other names she usually greets me with first thing.
After, like, two or three minutes of this, she goes, “Dad–?”
And I’m like, “Can this wait, Honor? I’m thinking about rugby.”
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She goes, “I suppose,” and she turns to leave the kitchen with her shoulders slumped.
Of course the old Spidey senses stort tingling then, telling me that my daughter is in some kind of, I want to say, distress?
I’m like, “Honor Maya Angelou Suu Kyi – although I think we dropped that last bit – O’Carroll-Kelly! Come back here! Tell me what’s wrong! But maybe keep it short because I want to think about rugby some more.”
She goes, “I got dumped.”
I’m like, “Dumped? By–?”
“Daniella,” she goes.
I’m like, “Daniella. The waitress from the old man’s restaurant. Right.”
She goes, “Is that all you can say?”
But in fairness to me, I said from day one that Daniella was way out of her league in terms of looks and that she should maybe lower her sights a bit.
Of course, there’s no medals for calling it. Never has been.
I’m there, “That’s, em, terrible. I know what you’re going through.”
She’s like, “No, you don’t. You told me you’ve always been the dumper and never the dumpee.”
I’m there, “That’s actually true.”
She goes, “So why are you saying you know what I’m going through?”
I’m like, “It was a figure of speech, Honor. Wasn’t meant to be taken literally.”
She looks me up and down, then she goes, “I should have known better than to try to talk to you about it. You focking loser. You were a shit rugby player and a shit parent.”
I’m suddenly there, “A.I., Honor,” and I don’t know where it even comes from. “A.I. will have the answer.”
She’s like, “What are you on about?”
“Yeah, no,” I go, “your old dear came home from her Mount Anville Alumni Prayers & Prosecco morning two Sundays ago–”
She’s like, “Pissed?”
Within, like, five seconds, ChatGPT has decided who was to blame for the breakdown of their relationship
And I’m there, “Well, obviously pissed. But she was banging on about this girl she went to school with – we’re talking Sive O’Neill. I got off with her twice. Which probably isn’t relevant to the story. I’m just giving you a bit of background colour. Anyway, Sive got divorced last year.”
She’s like, “And this affects me how exactly?”
“Well,” I go, “she was telling Sorcha how ChatGPT helped her through the early months of the break-up by telling her that it was mostly her husband’s fault. Seventy-four per cent his fault. That’s how accurate this thing can be.”
She doesn’t say anything but I can see that I have her attention.
I’m like, “You basically upload your entire WhatsApp chat history with someone to ChatGPT, then it analyses it and it’s able to tell you within literally seconds why things didn’t work out and how much of that was the other person’s fault. Here, give me your phone there.”
She hands over the old Wolfe and I go into her WhatsApp history with the famous – yeah, no – Daniella. I notice that the last seven or eight messages are from Honor to her, pleading with her to give her one more chance. I don’t comment on it either way. But if she lowered her sights and went for someone who no one else wanted, she wouldn’t need to beg like that. Call that a Rossism if you want.
I’m there, “Like I said, the important thing is the figure that it comes up with at the end,” and I upload the entire conversation to ChatGPT. “And to think, I used to laugh in his face back in the day when Fionn said that computers were the way the world was going.”
Within, like, five seconds, ChatGPT has decided who was to blame for the breakdown of their relationship. And I instantly freeze because it’s definitely not what I was expecting.
I read what it says – well, let’s be honest, I skim through it. It’s like, “Based on the conversational thread provided, Honor regularly demonstrates cruelty, condescension and thoughtlessness ...”
Honor’s there, “What does it say?”
But I’m still reading.
It’s like, “Danielle is the peacemaker in the relationship and the most likely to compromise ...”
[ Sorcha’s old dear singing sounds like a fox with its head trapped in a gateOpens in new window ]
Honor’s there, “Dad?”
It’s like, “Honor shows many narcissistic traits and a tendency towards pettiness that is child-like ...”
Honor goes, “Dad!”
I’m suddenly looking around the room, going, “No, it’s not working, Honor. Must be a Wifi issue. So much for computers being the way the world is going.”
Except she snatches the phone out of my hand. She doesn’t bother even reading what it says, just scrolls to the bottom of the page for the all-important figure.
“Eighty-eight per cent?” she goes. “I’m eighty-eight per cent to blame for the break-up?”
I’m like, “ChatGPT doesn’t know you like I know you, Honor. I’ve always said you were an acquired taste. Haven’t I always said you were an acquired taste? And, what, ChatGPT thinks it knows you after, what, five seconds?”
But she’s seriously lost it now. She’s going, “Eighty-eight per cent! Eighty-focking-eight!” showing one or two of the other qualities that ChatGPT also called her out on.
Did I mention it said she was wilfully deaf to opposing arguments?
“Fock you,” she goes, throwing her phone full-force at the wall. “Fock Danielle. And fock ChatGPT.”
I’m there, “We’ll pop up to Dundrum when you’ve calmed down and buy you a new phone,” because this is Ross territory. This is what I do best. I parent.
Then I close my eyes and I go back to thinking about rugby.
