Sorcha is like me before every Ireland squad announcement – in other words, focking delusional

So – yeah, no – it’s just a few weeks away now. It comes around fast. I’m talking about the annual Killiney and Dalkey Combined Christmas Fete. There’s, like, a meeting in the famous Castle and Heritage Centre to announce who’s got what job for this year, and Sorcha is like me before every Ireland squad announcement – in other words, focking delusional.

She goes, “I hope–” and then she’s like, “Actually, I’m not even going to say it.”

I’m there, “Yeah, no, say it, Sorcha.”

This is as we’re crossing the road from the church cor pork.

Can’t a father and son go for a pint without there being some, I don’t know, anterior motive?

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Honor is only running for Mount Anville head girl to downgrade her old dear’s greatest life achievement

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‘There’s a video of me doing the rounds on this famous Tick Tocks dot com’

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‘You should be ashamed of yourselves! We’re old enough to be your parents and we’ve taken you to three sets!’

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I’m like, “Better out than in. That’s my motto.”

She goes, “Well, I hope the fact that Honor slashed Bunny Dowdall’s tyres doesn’t mean we’re going to be given rubbish jobs this year.”

Bunny Dowdall, just to fill you in, took over the running of the thing from Sorcha’s old dear 10 years ago. She decides who does what at the event. The joke is that she has everyone’s fete in her hands.

Sorcha goes, “I’m sure Bunny wouldn’t be that vindictive”, which is why I say she’s delusional.

Dorothea Quigley lost the much-coveted traybake stall six Christmases ago after beeping Bunny at a traffic light on Silchester Road, and Ivor Gough was demoted as Santa Claus for skipping her in the queue in the Country Bake. The woman holds a grudge like a Lannister.

Every conversation in the place stops when we step into the room. People around here aren’t happy with Honor’s recent – let’s just call it – environmental activism and they obviously think we’re somehow to blame.

Sorcha decides to just style it out as if nothing has happened. She’s, like, all smiles, giving it, “Hi, Brona! How are the girls?” and, “Faye, your coat is fabulous!” but I’m picking up on the vibe that we’re about as welcome here as a snot-nosed kid in a bridal shop.

Bunny arrives, giving off big-time Lions squad announcement energy. There’s no, like, preamble. Bunny doesn’t do pleasantries. She reminds me a lot of Warren Gatland.

She goes, “Penny Wilson – Wheel of Fortune. Gussie Grennan – Guess the Turkey’s Weight. Brona Purcell-White – Christmas Tree Ring Toss. Tim Schuster – Hot Buttered Rum ...”

Sorcha digs her nails into my thigh. Yeah, no, I’ve done Hot Buttered Rum every year since 2014 and Sorcha is clearly storting to fear the worst.

Bunny goes, “Stef Mooney – Snowball Scavenge. Rena Rossiter – Pin the Nose on Rudolph. Sorcha Lalor and Ross O’Carroll-Kelly – toilets.”

Sorcha’s there, “Excuse me?” and there’s, like, a collective gasp in the room, because the one thing you do not do is interrupt Bunny when she’s in full flow, especially to question one of her decisions.

The woman goes, “Yes, can I help you?”

Sorcha’s like, “It’s just that I’ve done present-wrapping every year since my mom storted this fete 30 years ago. It’s kind of my thing? Just like gingerbread cookies was her thing and the tombola is yours?”

“Well, now the toilets are your thing,” Bunny goes. “Suzannah Jennings – present wrapping. Lucy Travis – raffle tickets ...”

Sorcha goes, “I’m sorry to cut in again. And this is no disrespect to you, Suzannah, but a lot of people come to the fete every year just to have their presents wrapped by me. There’s, like, an ort to the way I do it? And again, Suzannah, that’s no offence.”

Honor’s there, “The draw for the big prize. Bunny always has the winning ticket in her hand when she sticks it into the drum. I thought everybody knew that”

Bunny stares her out of it over the top of her glasses, then she goes, “Toilets is an important job. One of them overflowed last year. You’re also in charge of mopping up children’s vomit. And do it quickly before it hardens. Poor Terri Yallop had to chisel the popcorn kernels off the tiled floor last year.”

I can hear sniggers from, like, everyone. I stand up. I’m there, “Yeah, no, you can shove your fete up your focking–”

Except Sorcha pulls me back down again. She goes, “I think what my husband is trying to say is that we’re not 100 per cent sure that this is the best use of our talents?”

Bunny goes, “Working at the Christmas fete is entirely voluntary. No one is forcing you to do it.”

Sorcha’s there, “Well, like I said, my mom was the one who storted the whole thing, and I’ve done it very single year except obviously the Covid ones and the one where I went to visit my friend who was doing her Erasmus in Heidelberg.”

Bunny goes, “Then you’ll know how important the toilets are to the smooth running of the event”, and it’s, like, conversation over. “Lisa Lawrence – mince pies ...”

After the meeting breaks up, we head home and Sorcha has steam coming out of her pretty much ears. Even Honor notices.

She’s like, “What’s up with her?”

I’m there, “They took the present-wrapping off her. And the hot buttered rum off me. Although I think I always drank more than I actually dished out.”

She goes, “Did you lose your jobs because of me?”

I’m there, “Yeah, no, we did – even though I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” she goes. “I don’t really have a conscience?”

I’m like, “Yeah, no, you get that from my side of the family.”

“I suppose Bunny is still doing the tombola,” Honor goes. “She’s not letting go of that. Especially because it’s rigged.”

And that’s when Sorcha’s ears suddenly prick up. She’s like, “It’s what?”

Honor’s there, “The draw for the big prize. Bunny always has the winning ticket in her hand when she sticks it into the drum. I thought everybody knew that.”

Sorcha’s like, “Well, I didn’t. Hang on, didn’t Gloria Cawley-Clorke win the shopping trip to New York last year?”

Honor’s there, “Er, yeah – and who did she bring with her?”

Sorcha’s like, “Honor, please tell me you’re joking.”

Honor goes, “I’m not joking. Check Gloria’s Instagram.”

Which is what Sorcha ends up doing. She’s looking at her phone and she’s like, “Oh! My God, look at them standing in front of the tree at Rockefeller Plaza! That’s like, oh my God!”

Honor goes, “And if you remember, her sister won the skiing holiday the year before.”

Sorcha’s there, “I just thought that was, like, a coincidence.”

“It’s fixed,” Honor goes. “Every year.”

Sorcha has that look on her face – like when a plan is coming together in her head.

I’m like, “Are you going to call the Feds?”

And she’s there, “No, Ross. I’m going to catch her in the act.”