The old man says he doesn’t think he’ll bother with Christmas this year – “what with everything”.
By which he means, what with it being the first one since the old dear – yeah, no – pegged it.
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, Chorles, Fionnuala was such a Christmas person. She’d want you to celebrate it.”
He’s there, “I’m sorry, Sorcha. I just can’t muster any enthusiasm for it this year.”
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Sorcha goes, “I’ll tell you what. You sit there and enjoy your brandy–”
It’s, like, 11 o’clock in the morning, I could point out, except I don’t.
She’s like, “–and Ross and I will decorate the house for you.”
I’m there, “I don’t think I can go up to that attic, Sorcha.”
She goes, “Ross, if you mention your old rotator cuff injury again–”
I’m there, “It’s an actual thing, Sorcha. Google it.”
But she refuses to listen and I have no choice except to clamber up the rickety ladder and stort bringing down the boxes containing all of the old dear’s Christmas shit.
He drops the camera and you can hear the old dear pretty much dry-humping the dude
Seven hours later we finish decorating the gaff exactly the way the old dear – or, in fact, her domestic, the famous Iryna the Cleaner – used to do it.
There’s, like, Santa Clauses and snowmen and carol singers and reindeers everywhere you look.
And that’s when Sorcha, out of the blue, goes, “I wonder if there’s anything on this?” and she’s talking about our old video camera at the bottom of one of the boxes. She opens it up and there’s, like, an actual – hilarious – video cassette inside it?
“Why don’t we have a look at it?” the old man goes.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, good luck trying to find a video recorder.”
He’s like, “We have a video recorder in the livingroom.”
I’m there, “You must be the last person in the world to still own an actual video recorder.”
So the three of us head for the livingroom and Sorcha puts the thing in the machine. Ten seconds later, up pops the old dear’s face on the giant screen.
I’m like, “Jesus Christ!” because you’re never fully ready for it.
Sorcha’s like, “Oh my God, what house is that?”
“Glenageary,” the old man tries to go.
But I’m there, “Sallynoggin,” because it doesn’t hurt to remind him where he came from.
On the screen, the old dear is opening her presents. In the background, you can see a 10-year-old me, spinning a brand-new Gilbert in my hands.
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, Ross, look at you! You’re so dotey!”
The old dear – because she has to make everything about her – is opening something that looks like a poster, except it turns out to be a map of actual Foxrock.
“Pick a house,” you can hear the old man go, because his money from his corrupt land rezoning must have just come through, “and it’s yours. I’ll offer the owners whatever they want for it.”
Then he drops the camera and you can hear the old dear pretty much dry-humping the dude.
The action then jumps to, I don’t know, however many minutes later. The old dear is cooking a fry and telling the old man to stop pointing that thing in her face, meaning – thank God – the camera.
Then she goes, “I’ve a wonderful idea! Let’s go to the Forty Foot for a swim! Oh, come on, Chorles, it’s what our kind of people do on Christmas morning. It could become a family tradition.”
I’m there, “Sorcha, turn this shite off.”
Except the old man goes, “Nonsense, Kicker! Let’s keep watching!”
Oh my God, Ross, what are you doing in the water? You can’t actually swim
— Sorcha
The next shot is of the old dear standing there, sopping wet, with her top-tens spilling out of a bikini that’s about two decades too small for her and the old man standing next to her in his tight little Speedos, his big belly hanging over the waistband like cappuccino foam.
And – yeah, no – I must be holding the camera because it’s shaking and I can hear myself going, “It’s focking freezing, you two dicks. Can we go home now?”
And the old man goes, “Nonsense! It’s our new Christmas tradition! Have another swig from my hip flask, Kicker!” which I suppose, looking back, explains much.
Again, I’m there, “Yeah, no, Sorcha, let’s turn this thing off. We’ve all seen enough.”
Except the next shot happens to be of me in the – literally? – sea and I’m screaming, “Help! Help!” because I’m pretty much drowning.
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, Ross, what are you doing in the water? You can’t actually swim.”
And I’m there, “Someone pushed me. This was the Christmas I very nearly drowned.”
I can hear the old dear going, “Should one of us help him, Chorles?”
And the old man – I shit you not – is like, “No, look, he’s getting the hang of it now. Have another mince pie, Dorling. They’re from Cavistons,” and a second or two later you can hear her horsing into the thing.
There’s, like, a jump in the action then and the camera is still on me, thrashing around in the sea. You can hear the old man go, “You know something? I rather think you’re right, Dorling. I think he might well be – quote, unquote – drowning.”
Then he films the old dear jumping head-first off the diving platform and hitting the water like a piano being focked from a cruise ship. Then she powers through the water, her orms turning the sea into a froth, as she finally reaches me, then hooks an orm around my chin and swims with one orm back to the, I want to say, shore?
The old man goes, “Do you know what, Sorcha? I think Ross is right. Let’s turn it off. One can overdose on nostalgia at this time of year.”
But Sorcha goes, “Your mom saved your life, Ross!” because the next shot is of me, lying on the flat of my back on the little sandy beach while the old dear pumps my chest and gives me – my stomach does a quick lurch – the kiss of life.
The old man goes, “Like I said, we’ve probably watched enough of it now.”
But I’m like, “No, leave it.”
And that’s when I hear the old dear’s voice go, “Why did you push him in, Chorles?”
And he – I shit you not – is like, “How is he ever going to play Senior Cup rugby for Castlerock if he never learns to face his fear?”
