Sorcha tells Lauren we’re very excited about Saturday. She’s like, “Isn’t that right, Ross?”
And I’m there, “Yeah, no, we are,” being famously slow on the uptake. “I’ve a very good feeling about it, even though the result could come down to the strength of our respective benches.”
Lauren looks at me and then at Sorcha.
“The fock is he talking about?” she goes.
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Sorcha’s like, “Who knows. Probably rugby. You know, he was giving the Ireland players a team talk in his sleep the other night!”
The two of them crack up laughing like this is for some reason hilarious.
“James Lowe,” Sorcha goes, putting on this sort of, like, jock voice that sounds nothing at all like me, “I’m going to need 10 per cent more from you in the second half. Johnny Sexton — you just be Johnny Sexton.”
I honestly don’t know why that’s funny. But then Lauren has never had the slightest interest in rugby. I think it’s why her marriage to Christian failed.
I’m like, “Yeah, whatever. What are you talking about — in terms of, like, Saturday?”
And that’s when Sorcha says it. She’s like, “It’s Ross Junior’s birthday, remember? We’re going to, like, Center Porcs?”
Oh, fock.
I’m like, “Ross Junior? Why is that name familiar?”
“Er, he’s my son?” Lauren goes.
I know who he is — I’m just trying to buy myself some time here.
I’m like, “Ross Junior — I’m still trying to place him.”
“I’m here,” the kid suddenly pipes up. Yeah, no, he’s sitting at the picnic bench with us. “I’m your godthon, Roth!”
I’m there, “I’m just thinking aloud here — would Sunday not be a better day to go?”
Sorcha’s like, “We’re going for the entire weekend. And we’re setting off early on Saturday. So whatever rugby match is on—”
“It’s Ireland against the All Blacks, Sorcha — literally.”
She does another impression of me then. She’s like, “Goys, when they stort doing that haka nonsense, I want you all to walk off the pitch. Let’s show these fockers maximum disrespect,” and even Ross Junior joins in with the laughter this time.
All of a sudden, I hear a child crying. Yeah, no, the triplets are passing the old Gilbert around with Oliver — as in, like, Christian and Lauren’s youngest? It turns out he’s crying because they won’t give him the ball.
Lauren — word for word — goes, “Boys, can you throw the ball to Oliver? Everyone should get to hold it for the same amount of time.”
I honestly can’t understand how her marriage lasted as long as it did, especially if she was just casually dishing out bullshit coaching advice like that.
I’m still thinking about Saturday, though, and how I’m going to get out of having to go. Johnny “W***er” Byrne — who played for Clongowes back in the day, even though he was still sound — has a consignment of defective antigen tests that always come up positive and I’m just about to text him when Sorcha goes, “And don’t even think about faking Covid, Ross — because I’ll drive you to Sandyford and watch you take a PCR.”
I’m like, “Why do you always think the worst of me?” and I stand up from the table because — yeah, no — little Oliver is still pissing and moaning about the goys not passing to him.
I’m there, “Oliver, there’s more to rugby than having the ball in your hands. Especially if you’re a forward — you could have the game of your life without ever touching the thing.”
It’s inspirational stuff — I honestly can’t believe that an AIL club has never offered me a coaching role — but it’s wasted on the kid. He just goes, “No!” and he punches me full in the stomach.
And that’s when I end up having one of my world famous ideas.
I slip into the house and I go to the cupboard under the stairs. I open the little Quality Street tin containing the fake blood capsules, which Fr Fehily gave me back in the day. Yeah, no, we used to use them to make strategic substitutions — this was years before Tom Williams and Horlequins ruined it for everyone else.
I bring a handful out to the gorden, then I pull Leo aside. I’m like, “Here, stick one of these in your mouth and bite down on it.”
He’s there, “Why?”
“I’m giving you a lesson in the dork orts, Leo. I want you to say that Oliver there punched you in the mouth.”
“Why?”
Kids of that age are so full of questions. It’s focking annoying.
“Look,” I go, “you want to watch Ireland against the All Blacks on Saturday, don’t you?”
He just shrugs like he doesn’t care one way or the other. It’s possibly a terrible thing to say but I wonder sometimes are these kids definitely mine.
I’m there, “Okay, I’ll give you 50 quid if you —”
I don’t even get to finish my sentence. Brian morches over and grabs the nine or 10 capsules out of my hand.
“I want €100,” he goes — yeah, no, they’re my kids alright.
I’m there, “Fine — 100 it is.”
He throws them into his gob and bites down on them. Suddenly, he’s got blood spilling down his chin, down his neck and down the front of his Ireland training top.
I hear a scream. Sorcha comes running over. She’s like, “Oh! My God! What happened?”
Brian goes, “Oliver punched me in the face.”
Poor Oliver hasn’t a focking clue what’s going on. You’d nearly feel sorry for him — but, hey, it’s the series decider.
Lauren goes, “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Brian.”
Sorcha gives her an absolute filthy. She’s there, “Is that all you’re going to say?”
Lauren’s like, “What do you want me to say?”
“Er, you could, like, discipline him?”
“Discipline him? Yeah, I’m hordly going to take parenting advice from a woman whose children are banned from Tayto Pork, Dublin Zoo, Kidspace Rathfornham—”
Little Ross Junior goes, “Sthtop! Sthtop fighting!”
But I’m like, “Butt out of it, kid. Let’s see how this plays out.”
Sorcha’s there, “Well, if my kids are so awful, Lauren, I don’t know why you invited us to go to Center Porks in the first place.”
“Well, I don’t either,” Lauren goes, “Come on, Oliver. Come on, Ross. We’re leaving.”
Like I said, it defies belief that no club in the AIL can find a place for me on their coaching ticket. After all these years, I’m still the tactical master.
