Game of Throw-ins Read online

  She’s like, ‘What was?’

  ‘She tried to hop me!’ I go. ‘The mad bitch tried to focking hop me!’

  She looks at me with a confused expression on her face. ‘Hop you?’ she goes. ‘I thought you liked her?’

  I’m like, ‘Breege? You must be focking shitting me!’

  ‘So why did you come back with her?’

  ‘I didn’t come back with her – I came back here with you!’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘That’s right. I pulled you.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Well, you certainly gave me the impression that I did. I asked you was I in and you said yes.’

  ‘I meant in with Breege.’

  It’s terrible, roysh, because the woman herself suddenly arrives down the stairs and she has to listen to the conversation.

  ‘Do you honestly think I’d be interested in that?’ I go. ‘Jesus Christ, look at the focking state of her.’

  ‘But you spent half the night talking to her.’

  ‘That was to try to get in with you. Get all the mates onside. Everyone knows that tactic.’

  Breege has the cheek to turn around and go, ‘You certainly gave me the impression that you were interested in me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘you were focking dreaming. Jesus, no wonder you looked so focking happy leaving Coppers. It’s all beginning to add up now. You were like a dog having its belly rubbed.’

  Denise goes, ‘I just presumed it was Breege you liked because you and her are, well, closer in age.’

  ‘Closer in age? She’s just focking retired! How old do you think I am?’

  ‘I don’t know. Fifty?’

  ‘Fifty? I’m still technically thirty-four!’

  ‘Well, I’m only twenty-two. I don’t know why you thought I’d be interested in a man of your age.’

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I’m beginning to wonder myself.’

  I go back upstairs and I gather up my clothes with as much dignity as I can muster. It obviously isn’t much.

  Sorcha says I can’t not celebrate my birthday. I tell her it’s not that I don’t want to celebrate it, it’s just I don’t want to make a massive deal of it, even though she obviously does, because she’s booked dinner in Chapter One.

  She goes, ‘What would you prefer to do, Ross? And don’t say you’d rather spend the night drinking pints in Kielys.’

  I’m there, ‘I’m a very uncomplicated man, Sorcha – that’s all I’m saying in my defence.’

  She’s driving, by the way. It’s, like, a Tuesday night and she doesn’t want to be still half-cut on the school run tomorrow. It’s Mount Anville, not Sion Hill.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ she goes, ‘guess who’s coming over on Saturday?’

  I’m there, ‘Okay, please don’t say your parents.’

  ‘No, Ross, not my parents. I’m talking about this boy that Honor likes – as in, like, Caleb? Honor hates me calling it a play date, but I don’t think I’m ready to call it a date date yet – that would mean admitting that our little girl is growing up!’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t affect me one way or the other because I’m not going to be around.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I told Ronan I’d go and visit him in his Love/Hate caravan.’

  ‘He goes there to study, Ross.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I’ll only stay a few hours.’

  ‘Caleb isn’t coming until three o’clock. Just make sure you’re back by then. It’s a huge day for Honor, especially if she really likes this boy.’

  She suddenly pulls the cor over.

  I’m like, ‘What are you doing?’

  She goes, ‘I can’t bear that look of longing on your face, Ross.’

  We were just passing Kielys.

  She’s there, ‘Do you want to go for a pint?’

  I’m like, ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘It’s your birthday, Ross. I can ring the restaurant and say we’ll be half an hour late.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I’ll just have one or two. Or three.’

  She porks outside Tesco Express, then thirty seconds later I’m practically running across the road, cors narrowly missing me, to reach the pub.

  I push the door. The place is focking rammers, especially for a Tuesday night in January. Suddenly, there’s this, like, humungous roar.

  It’s like: ‘Happy birthday, Ross!’

  And of course all I can do is laugh.

  I turn to Sorcha and I’m like, ‘I don’t believe it! You organized all of this?’

  She’s goes, ‘Happy birthday, my love!’ and she gives me a kiss.

  I’m saying this now and I mean every word of it. I am married to the most wonderful woman in the world. I’m going to make a genuine effort to try to stop cheating on her.

  Pretty much everyone is there. Ronan and Honor. Christian and JP. The old man and Helen. Ryle Nugent and the great One F in Foley.

  I end up having the most amazing night. I even manage to forget my age for a couple of hours – until just after ten o’clock when Helen produces a cake with thirty-five candles burning on it and Ronan shouts, ‘Be careful the bleaten sprinklers don’t come on!’ which everyone finds hilarious.

  The old man leads everyone in a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to You’, then a couple of rounds of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ for good measure, then everyone storts looking at me, going, ‘Speech! Speech!’

  I’m like, ‘Fock off – you’re not getting a speech!’

  The old man goes, ‘I’ll say something, Ross, if you don’t mind!’ because he loves the sound of his own voice, of course.

  ‘Thirty-five years ago today,’ he goes, ‘Ross O’Carroll-Kelly entered the world. His mother, who unfortunately can’t be here with us tonight, came over funny in the National Gallery of Ireland whilst looking at some watercolours by Mr Joseph Mallord William Turner Esquire. She thought at first that it might have been a piece of Brie that didn’t agree with her. That was until her waters broke all over the bloody well polished wooden floor!’

  ‘Yeah, T.M.I.,’ I shout. ‘T.M. focking I.’

  Everyone laughs.

  He goes, ‘His mother considered this an augury as to what course her son would take in life. In fact, he was very nearly christened Joseph Mallord William Turner O’Carroll-Kelly, so convinced was she that he was going to be an artist. “Stuff and nonsense!” insisted old Charles O’Carroll-Kelly here. “The chap will be a rugby player! Nothing surer!”

  ‘Well, I’m happy to say that good sense prevailed and I was proved absolutely correct. Ross, as you all know, was one of the finest Irish players ever to play the game – brief as his career was. Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara, his godfather and as shrewd a judge of rugby as I’ve ever known, would back me up, I think, in saying that it would be impossible to exaggerate how much potential he once possessed.’

  For fock’s sake – is this supposed to be making me feel good about myself?

  ‘Sadly,’ he goes, ‘Ross didn’t go on to play for Ireland like everyone was convinced he would. Neither did he win Heineken Cups nor captain the Lions nor score a record number of tries for his country. But he did something that was, well, almost on a par. He became a loyal and dutiful husband …’

  That gets more than a few laughs.

  He’s there, ‘A loyal and dutiful husband to a wonderful girl named Sorcha O’Carroll-Kelly, née Lalor, and without a shadow of a doubt the best father it has ever been my pleasure to watch in action. Ladies and gentleman, will you raise your glasses, please, in a toast to Ross O’Carroll-Kelly – thirty-five years young today!’

  They all raise their glasses and there’s, like, a big cheer.

  I end up having a quiet little moment with Sorcha then. She goes, ‘That was lovely what Chorles said!’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I thought he could have mentioned some of my other achievements, for instance coaching Andorra and playing three times for UCD.’

  She’s there, ‘Oh, I have a pre
sent for you,’ and she suddenly produces this humungous package, all wrapped up with a blue bow on it.

  Blue for obviously Leinster.

  I’m there, ‘What is it? Inside, I mean.’

  She’s like, ‘Open it and you’ll see.’

  Which is what I end up doing. I pull the bow loose, with everyone in Kielys watching, then I tear off the wrapping paper and it ends up being a huge, flat box with the words Cole Haan written on it. I lie it down flat on the bor, then I lift the lid and I pull aside the tissue paper.

  It’s a coat. I take the lapel between my thumb and my forefinger.

  I’m like, ‘Is that camel hair?’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Yes, it’s camel hair. You see, I worry about you going to see that team of yours, standing in the freezing cold of the RDS. I’ve been saying for ages that you needed a good coat.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got my famous Henri Lloyd sailing jacket, bear in mind.’

  ‘I’m talking about a sensible coat, Ross. You’re thirty-five now. You can’t keep dressing like you’re in UCD. Are you going to try it on?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on, try it on.’

  Literally everyone in Kielys is suddenly going, ‘Put it on, Ross! Go on – put it on!’

  So I end up having no choice in the matter. I whip off my famous sailing jacket and Sorcha takes the coat out of its box and she’s like, ‘You are going to be – oh my God – so warm in this!’ as she holds it out for me to slip my orms into the sleeves. I pull it up over my shoulders, then Sorcha buttons it up and – again – everyone cheers. Ronan even wolf-whistles.

  Sorcha’s there, ‘It looks amazing on you!’

  It fits me like a focking shower cubicle.

  I’m there, ‘It’s a bit, I don’t know, roomy, isn’t it?’

  JP shouts, ‘That’s for the middle-age spread! You’ve got to plan for the future, Dude!’

  Everyone gets a good laugh out of that.

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Seriously, Ross, you look like an actual adult for once.’

  That’s when my old man tips over. He’s there, ‘You might as well open my present next. It’s like you read my mind, Sorcha. I was thinking about the same thing – you could catch your death of cold in that RDS!’

  He hands me a box. I stare at it for a few seconds, then I go, ‘As long as it’s not a focking hat like yours!’

  I open the box. It is a focking hat like his.

  The old man picks it out of the box and presses it onto my head. Everyone cheers, then they’re all suddenly taking pictures of me with their iPhones.

  I happen to turn my head and I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bor, standing there in my camel-hair coat and hat. And I realize at that moment that it’s happening. The process is underway.

  I’m turning into my old man.

  So it’s, like, Saturday morning and – miracle of miracles – I’m up and about. Sorcha has taken Honor and the boys shopping – to get shit in for the visit of Caleb this afternoon. I don’t know why she’s going to so much trouble.

  I’m enjoying a little bit of Ross Time, lying back on the sofa and scribbling a few notes in my notorious Tactics Book about how I see the forthcoming Six Nations panning out in terms of, like, results?

  It’s a genuine scandal that the IRFU has never found a role for me within the set-up. There’s never a time when I’m not thinking about rugby?

  I write out the names of the XV that I think should stort against Italy, then against France, then against England, then against Wales, then against Scotland, obviously injuries permitting. Then I write down the areas in which I think each opposition team is weak – ‘Chris Robshaw: a focking dick’ – and then I write down a few moves that I believe could unlock each team we’re going to face.

  And then I end up laughing because I’m suddenly picturing Joe Schmidt’s reaction if he ever got his hands on this book. He’d read it, then he’d go straight to the IRFU and demand to know why someone who’s still got this much to contribute is sitting at home in his boxer shorts, writing in a notebook and having a beer at eleven o’clock in the morning.

  I couldn’t swear to you that it’s my first of the day either.

  Joe wouldn’t let them bullshit him, by the way. Especially not in a World Cup year. He’d be there, ‘Why?’

  And they’d be all, ‘Why what?’

  And he’d be like, ‘Why isn’t this goy part of the set-up?’

  And they’d be there, ‘Well, it’s just the way he thinks about the game – the whole work hard, play hard thing – it doesn’t fit in with our, I don’t know, philosophy?’

  And he’d go, ‘I’d tell you what you can do with your philosophy if I wasn’t such a lovely bloke. Actually, I will tell you – you can shove up it up your hole, you pack of useless focks. And it’s very unlike me to swear. Have you looked through this book?’

  And they’d be all, ‘No, we’re too busy with stuff, mostly bullshit.’

  And he’d be there, ‘Well, this morning, I want you to spend four or five hours absorbing what’s in it, then I want you to clear out your desks. You’re fired – every single one of you.’

  I’m actually shaking my head and chuckling away to myself when I’m dragged from my fantasy by the sound of the phone in the kitchen ringing. Now, I generally never answer the house phone, but at the moment we’re waiting for an oil delivery and I’m wondering is it possibly them ringing because they can’t find where we are on the Vico Road.

  I usually tell people it’s the one that looks like Sleeping Beauty’s gaff.

  I lift the receiver. There’s, like, a two- or three-second delay on the line, then I hear a voice – not an Irish voice either. I’m not going to say the woman is from India because that would be obviously racist. All I will say is that she’s from one of those types of countries?

  She goes, ‘Hello, Sir.’

  Again, you’ll have to do the voice in your own heads because I don’t want to be accused of shit?

  I go, ‘Okay, who’s this?’ wondering is it possibly Jerry Flannery ripping the piss, as he often does.

  She goes, ‘I am ringing because we have detected a problem with your computer.’

  I laugh. I actually laugh? I’m there, ‘Have you really?’

  She goes, ‘Yes, Sir.’

  I’m like, ‘A problem with my computer?’ just reeling her in.

  ‘That’s right. You have a virus that is affecting your Microsoft Windows operating system. We can fix it for you.’

  ‘That’s focking great news,’ I go. ‘But listen, just before we get down to business, can I just say that you have a gorgeous voice. And gorgeous isn’t a word I’d often use.’

  She’s a little bit thrown by that? She’s there, ‘Em, that is, em, very nice.’

  ‘I could actually listen to you read the phone book,’ I go. ‘Have you ever worked for directory inquiries?’

  ‘No, Sir, I have not.’

  ‘Well, you could. Very easily.’

  ‘Okay,’ she goes, suddenly trying to be all business. ‘We must repair this virus right now or it has the potential to destroy your computer.’

  I’m there, ‘What are you wearing?’

  There’s, like, five seconds of just silence, then she goes, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Describe what you’re wearing. Underwear and everything.’

  ‘Sir, it’s not appropriate for you to speak to me this way.’

  ‘I’m just trying to get a picture of you in my head. A wank in the bank, as they say.’

  ‘Sir, I am asking you not to speak to me this way.’

  ‘Say something filthy. Something really filthy that doesn’t involve viruses. Tell me you’re horny, for instance, then build up to something else.’

  This ends up being the last straw for her. She’s there, ‘I am going to ask you to speak to my supervisor.’

  I laugh. I’m like, ‘Supervisor? Yeah, no, that’s a good one. Stick him on there.’

&nb
sp; I hear a lot of chatter in the background – it’s all in Indian – then I end up being put onto some random dude. He’s like, ‘Hello?’

  He’s also from down that way – we’ll call it India Direction just to keep the politically correct brigade happy.

  I’m there, ‘Okay, who have I got now?’

  He goes, ‘I am the supervisor. You have a virus that is affecting the Microsoft Windows operating system on your computer.’

  ‘Yeah, no, we’ve been through all that?’

  ‘It has the potential to destroy your hard drive.’

  ‘Look, will you put that woman back on?’

  ‘No, I will not. She is now on a different call.’

  ‘It’s just your voice is doing very little for me.’

  The line suddenly goes dead. He’s obviously put down the phone. I end up just cracking my hole laughing.

  It’s at that exact point that Sorcha suddenly arrives home from town with Honor and the boys.

  I’m like, ‘Hey, how’d you get on?’

  She doesn’t answer me. She’s all business. ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘will you take the shopping bags from the boot, unpack them, then feed the boys. Oh my God, I’ve got so much baking to do this afternoon!’

  I’m like, ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering your orse,’ then I turn to Honor and I go, ‘One thing you definitely don’t want to come across as is desperate.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Ross, it’s important to always project the best version of yourself.’

  It’s hord to tell which of them has a date this afternoon.

  I go, ‘I’m just questioning your tactics here, Honor. It never pays to come across as too keen. In my experience, goys are more interested in birds who are bitches, just as birds are more interested in goys who are bastards.’

  Honor ends up letting me down, though. She turns to Sorcha and goes, ‘Can you help me with something?’

  And Sorcha’s there, ‘Sure, what is it?’

  ‘I want to make myself look nice.’

  I’m there, ‘That’s going to take some focking work.’

  Actually, I don’t say it. I just think it.

  She goes, ‘I was thinking, I might put on some make-up?’

  Sorcha’s face lights up like a box of firecrackers. She’s like, ‘Oh! My God! Charlotte Tilbury has this amazing YouTube video on how to use contouring to give your face more shape. She does Sienna Miller’s make-up for the Oscars – and she’s someone who definitely makes the most of herself.’