Game of Throw-ins Read online

  Of course the trick is not to tear the orse out of it. We only do it every second or third scrum. The next time we do it, their scrum ends up collapsing – I think the dude’s legs are focked – and we win a penalty, which Senny kicks to put us 10–3 ahead. Then, just before half-time, we repeat the dose. Another pen. Another three points.

  The referee eventually cops what’s happening, of course. As we’re walking in at half-time, he turns around to me and goes, ‘I’ve just seen what you’re doing.’

  And I’m like, ‘Yeah? What do you think you saw?’

  ‘Don’t be clever with me. I see you do that in the second half and I’m sending you to the bin.’

  But there’s no need to do it again. Because we’ve got, like, a ten-point cushion. And possibly because of that, the most incredible thing happens when we come out for the second half. Well, first we get a fluky try in the first minute when Ollie Lysaght chorges down a City of Derry kick, gets the bounce and sprints, like, eighty yords to deposit the ball under the posts. Then Senny adds the old Twix after dinner and suddenly the gap is, like seventeen points.

  We’re definitely not seventeen points better than City of Derry, but for the first time, presumably this season, we stort playing with actual confidence. The goys have stopped thinking of themselves as just fodder for the bigger teams and they’re suddenly thinking, Er, we can actually win matches.

  At the stort of the second half, in fact, you can sense that the City of Derry goys already know the game is up. Then it becomes all about the backs and I finally discover why Senny is on the verge of being accepted into the Leinster Academy. He has an unbelievable forty minutes of rugby, grabbing a second try for himself and doing all the work to create one for Johnny Bliss, who crosses the line, already kissing his badge to demonstrate his loyalty to the twenty or thirty fans who’ve shown up.

  We end up destroying them. In the last five minutes, me and Bucky end up doing the bind trick again. Their scrum collapses and it’s, like, high-fives all round. Maho and Bucky especially are like, ‘Well done, Rossi!’

  As Senny is shaping up to take the penalty, the old man shouts, ‘The Seapoint number ten will take away all the plaudits, but the number two is the real power behind the throne today!’

  Maho turns to me and goes, ‘Jesus, that Denis O’Brien seems to be a massive fan of yours, Rossi.’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, he does alright.’

  We end up winning 47–3.

  The final whistle is the trigger for, like, wild celebrations. Byrom walks around the pitch and puts his orm around each and every one of our shoulders and he tells us he’s proud. But he tells me he’s especially proud of me.

  Bucky says we’re going out tonight to celebrate – and we’re going to celebrate in a major way. So I trot over to Denis O’Brien and I tell him that I need €500 in cash.

  Old habits die hord.

  Sorcha asks me if I’m excited about tonight.

  I’m like, ‘Tonight? What’s tonight?’

  She’s there, ‘It’s your mom and Ari’s engagement porty!’

  ‘Oh, that?’ I go. ‘Yeah, no, I’m not going.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re not going?’

  ‘I couldn’t be focking orsed.’

  ‘Ross, your mom is getting remarried and I think you need to stort getting your head around that idea. Either way, we’re going to her engagement porty tonight.’

  I’m there, ‘I probably will end up going, but hopefully just to rip the piss.’

  I decide that if I’m going to have to put myself through it, I’m going to have to go to bed for a couple of hours, so I stort climbing the stairs. ‘Here,’ I go, ‘where’s Honor, by the way?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘She’s upstairs in her room, doing her homework.’

  This is, like, five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, by the way.

  I’m like, ‘Homework?’ understandably worried. ‘Is that not something she usually does on Monday morning in the cor on the way to school?’

  ‘It used to be,’ Sorcha goes. ‘But that’s Caleb’s influence. They’re actually studying together!’

  ‘Studying? She’s in focking primary school.’

  ‘Well, Caleb told her she didn’t want to find herself going into secondary school in a few years and discovering that she was behind everyone else in terms of her educational development.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that one little bit. Hang on, are you saying Caleb is upstairs with her?’

  ‘Now, don’t stort doing the whole protective father routine, Ross. Nothing’s going to happen.’

  ‘Of course nothing’s going to happen. He’s already Friend Zoned the girl. It’s you he actually wants.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Ross. His mother has already had a talk with him about it.’

  ‘Well, either way, I’m sick of him being here all the time.’

  I head upstairs. I think about sticking my head around Honor’s door, just to let Caleb know that not everyone under this roof is a slave to his chorms. In the end, I don’t bother.

  I tip into the bedroom, lie down on the bed and close my eyes. And that’s when I get the sudden sense that there’s, like, someone in the room with me.

  I open my eyes and at the same time I sit up. He’s standing at the end of the bed.

  I’m talking about Caleb.

  I’m like, ‘What the fock?’ because I get a genuine fright.

  He keeps looking over his left shoulder in a sort of, like, shifty way? Somehow, I get the impression that he’s just stepped out of Sorcha’s walk-in wardrobe.

  I’m there, ‘I asked you a question. What the fock?’

  He’s like, ‘What do you mean by that?’ trying to brazen it out. But his face is all flushed.

  I’m there, ‘What the fock are you doing in my bedroom? What were you doing in the wardrobe?’

  He goes, ‘Honor asked me to get her something.’

  ‘I call bullshit on that.’

  ‘It’s not bullshit.’

  ‘So what were you getting?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’ He slips out of the room and out onto the landing.

  I shout after him.

  I go, ‘Don’t let me catch you poking around in this room again, you little focking psychopath.’

  The old dear is loving being the centre of attention. I’m sure you can picture the scene.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha goes, ‘she looks amazing!’

  I’m there, ‘No, she doesn’t. She looks like exactly what she is – a scarecrow in a Versace gown, with a painted-on smile to hide the fact that she’s shitfaced and painted-on eyebrows to make it look like she’s actually interested in what other people have to say and –’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Ross!’

  ‘Hang on, Babes, I’m not done yet … who’s then been repeatedly smashed in the face with a snow shovel. Okay, now I’m done.’

  ‘Like I said to you earlier,’ Sorcha goes, ‘do you not think it’s about time you did something about your mother issues?’

  I’m there, ‘I wasn’t aware that I had mother issues?’

  There must be, like, two hundred people in the gaff in Foxrock. I swear to fock, it’s bigger than our actual wedding.

  ‘Fionnuala is getting married,’ Sorcha goes, ‘and she’s content for the first time in – oh my God – so long? Why can’t you be happy for her?’

  I’m there, ‘Because she’s about to marry someone who’s not in his right mind. And even though that’s the second most important quality she looks for in a man – after obviously money – I actually feel sorry for the poor focker. I seem to be the only one who does.’

  ‘You shouldn’t feel sorry for him.’

  ‘Er, he was in l’Ecrivain singing Broadway focking show tunes to his first wife – who died nearly thirty years ago.’

  ‘But saying you feel sorry for him is patronizing and can only serve to stigmatize people with impaired reasoning and memory.’

 
; ‘Oh, so you’re agreeing with me that there is something wrong with him?’

  ‘No, I’m saying I think we should take Fionnuala’s explanation at face value – that he drank on an empty stomach and the combination of that and his blood pressure medication –’

  The old dear is suddenly waving at us across the crowded room, going, ‘Sorcha! Ross! Yoohoo!’

  We end up having to go over to her, of course, to congratulate her again and have yet another look at the ring and generally feed her need to be the centre of absolutely everything, the fat, plunger-faced, attention junkie.

  ‘Sorcha!’ she tries to go. ‘You look fab-a-lous! I was just telling the girls about the wedding plans!’

  She’s chatting to Delma and some woman I vaguely recognize from the campaign to stop the Luas coming to Foxrock. They’re both, like, nodding away and doing their best to come across as happy for the old dear. I always think Delma is like one of those people who had a chance to kill Hitler back in the early days, then spent their whole lives basically kicking themselves that they didn’t.

  ‘The yacht we’re getting married on has six floors,’ the old dear tries to go, ‘each with its own deck – teak-finished, naturally. Every stateroom has a walk-in wardrobe and a His and Hers bathroom and every deck has its own hot tub, sauna and steam room. It has six fully stocked bars, including the one in the underwater observation room, where you can enjoy a Gin Mule, or a Caipirinha, or a Mai Tai, or a Daiquiri, while enjoying the wonderful, wonderful sea life.’

  I decide to put a stop to her gallop.

  ‘What if a whale happens to see you looking out at it,’ I go, ‘and notices that you’ve got half of its mother’s fat injected into your focking lips and forehead?’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Ross! Apologize to your mom this minute!’

  But I just wander off, having made my point. I overhear someone say that they just saw Denis O’Brien horsing into the mango and crayfish canapés, so I head for the buffet, where I find the old man, of course, stuffing his face.

  I’m there, ‘I can’t believe you’ve still got that focking thing on your head. Is this going to become, like, a permanent thing?’

  ‘No,’ he goes, ‘I’m just having a bit of fun with it. You know, I bumped into poor Gavin O’Reilly coming out of Peterson of Dublin yesterday? I was popping in for a box of my cigars. Well, he got such a fright when he saw me, he almost walked out in front of the Viking Splash bus! I must tell Denis that! I have to say, Ross, I’m rather enjoying the experience of being him. I feel, well, not to put too fine a point on it, positively virile!’

  ‘Okay, too much information.’

  ‘Oh, it’s one thing that even his fiercest critics – Sam Smyth, Eamon Dunphy, Vincent Browne, et al. – would have to admit about Denis. His hair is bloody magnificent. Hennessy has been saying it for years. That’s the real source of his wealth. You don’t need a tribunal of inquiry to tell you that. It’s all in the hair – that lustrous, lustrous mane of his. He let me touch it once. One of only about six people to have ever touched it. It was in Quinta do Lago. He was at the absolute peak of his powers.’

  I grab a glass of Champagne from a passing waiter, then Ari storts walking around, trying to herd everyone into the drawing room, where he’s apparently going to make a speech.

  I wander in there, not because I want to hear what he has to say but because I see a pretty girl walk in ahead of me. If I had to say she looked like someone, that someone would be Alana Blanchard and she has the biggest pair of tartugas that I have ever seen. I sidle up to her.

  What can I say? I’m a social animal.

  ‘Hey,’ I go, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m pretty sure I’d remember if we did.’

  She’s there, ‘Excuse me?’

  From her accent, I’d say she’s either American or from somewhere around here.

  I’m there, ‘I’m just wondering what your connection is to the supposedly happy couple? I’m Ross, just to let you know. It’s actually my mother who’s getting married.’

  She looks me up and down – not in a good way – and goes, ‘Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly is your mother?’

  I’m like, ‘Unfortunately, yeah. So, like, how do you know her?’

  ‘I was in rehab with her. In Malibu. She never mentioned that she had a son, by the way.’

  The woman is un-focking-believable.

  ‘Well,’ I go, ‘I’m not making it up. So, what, you became, like, friends with her, did you?’

  ‘Oh, we are far from friends – that’s my grandpa she’s taking advantage of.’

  There’s, like, a buzz in the room. Thirty conversations going on at the same time. Ari is trying to shush everyone. He wants to make this speech. Or maybe he’s going to focking sing again – nothing would surprise me after l’Ecrivain. He’s going, ‘Quiet, please! I got something important to say! It’s important! Goddamn it, I said quiet!’

  There suddenly is quiet. After a long pause, he goes, ‘Yesterday, December seven, nineteen forty-one – a date that will live in infamy – the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan. The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific …’

  Everyone – including all of the old dear’s friends – is looking at each other as if to say, ‘Okay, what the fock?’

  I turn to Ari’s granddaughter and I go, ‘My old dear is trying to claim it’s a problem with his medication.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with his medication,’ she goes. ‘He’s got senile dementia.’

  I’m like, ‘Definitely?’

  She goes, ‘Are you even listening to this?’

  Ari’s there, ‘It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time, the Japanese government had deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.’

  The old dear, who’s obviously embarrassed – a rare enough event in itself – walks up to him and tries to stop him making a total orse of himself, but mostly of her.

  She’s like, ‘Ari, I really think –’

  But he ends up going, ‘Fionnuala, it’s difficult to hear it, I know, but it still has to be said. The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. Very many American lives have been lost.’

  I turn around to his granddaughter and I’m like, ‘So what are you going to do?’

  And she’s there, ‘Everything I can to stop this charade going ahead.’

  ‘No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion,’ Ari goes, ‘the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory. I believe I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the utmost but will make very certain that this form of treachery shall never endanger us again.’

  That’s when the girl – I might have already mentioned that she’s an absolute lasher with a fantastic set of Mungo Jerrys – storts pushing her way through the crowd over to where Ari is ranting and raving. I follow, sensing that there might be some kind of fireworks.

  Ari obviously has no idea that his granddaughter is here – that’s judging by his surprised reaction when he sees her. But it’s nothing compared to the old dear’s shock.

  She goes, ‘Tiffany Blue?’ and I’m thinking, holy shit, is that her actual name? ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh,’ this Tiffany Blue one goes, ‘I can see how it’s kind of inconvenient for you, me turning up like this. But I’m here to take my grandpa home.’

  God, she’s a ride.

  Ari’s like, ‘Take me home? Are you crazy? I’m getting married!’

  ‘You can’t ge
t married because you’re not capable of understanding what that means.’

  Ari’s obviously hurt by that because he actually staggers backwards a step or two? He’s like, ‘You say that to me. My own flesh and …’

  ‘You have senile dementia!’ Tiffany Blue just goes.

  Everyone gasps, and I give Sorcha a look across the room that’s meant to get across the point that I focking told her so!

  Ari’s like, ‘I got a problem with my meds, is all.’

  Tiffany Blue goes, ‘We both know that’s not true.’

  ‘It’s true! I never felt better in my life! I’m marrying your grandma and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

  ‘Grandma’s dead. She died in 1987. Don’t you remember?’

  I decide to weigh in to the debate. I’m there, ‘You have definitely convinced me. It should have been obvious from day one. There’d have to be something wrong with any man who wanted to marry that drunken boxtroll.’

  Sorcha tries to get involved then. She goes, ‘Why don’t we sit down and discuss this like adults?’ because she’s always keen to use whatever skills she picked up when she did that Certificate in Mediation course in the Smurfit Business School.

  ‘I’m not sitting down,’ Tiffany Blue goes, ‘and I don’t feel the need to discuss anything with you, whoever you are. I’m here to stop my grandpa being shaken down by this cold-blooded, scheming, morally bankrupt woman.’

  Seriously, I’d knock the orse off her.

  ‘You have a nerve!’ the old dear all of a sudden roars. ‘You accuse me of being a gold-digger? You don’t care about Ari – all you care about is his money. That’s all you’ve ever cared about. He raised you when your parents died. And how did you repay him? You broke his bloody heart! You stole from him – for what? To fill your body with drugs!’

  I’m there, ‘Whoa! You’re on thin ice talking about drugs – I just want to point that out. Continue.’

  ‘Oh, she’s on thin ice alright,’ Tiffany Blue goes. ‘You know what she told me when we were in rehab? She said when she got out, she was going to find a rich, old man to marry – someone who was right on the verge of falling off the perch.’