'If it's this kind of thing - affairs of the hort - come to me'

It's, like, the innocence of youth: the poor kid doesn't realise girls love a whiff of danger, especially daughters of the old Society of the Sacred Hort, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY

HE’S WAITING, as arranged, outside

Dr Quirky's, and I can tell, even from as far back as the GPO, that something's up. You could call it, like, a father's instinct. I go, "Hey, Ro," the hand primed for the old five in the sky, even thoughit's O'Connell Street. He gives me some skin, except he does it without any real, I suppose, feeling?

“Alreet, Rosser,” he just goes. “How’s tricks?” Two cops pass by, and he doesn’t make an oinking sound under his breath, or even go, “ACAB,” like he usually does. Something is definitely eating him. I decide not to grill him, though. Giving your kids the heavy-parent routine, I’m on the record as saying, is like wrestling with a hog – no one learns anything and all you do is make a mess.

My attitude is that he’ll tell me what’s on his mind in his own sweet time.

“Are you still off the cigarettes?” I go, thinking, yeah, whatever he is going through, it might be nothing more serious than nicotine withdrawal.

He’s there, “Still off them, yeah.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” He pulls a face. “Ine fooken gutten, man.” I give him one of my famous understanding looks. “Look, do you want me to buy you some baccy? A pouch of your usual. Moore Street’s only around the corner.” He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s a doorty habit, Rosser.”

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it. Another is that it’s given your voice that gravelly edge – which is a major part of your image, don’t forget,” but he doesn’t answer, roysh, so I just leave it. We’re heading for the Sinn Féin shop on Pornell Square, if you can believe that. He’s been on at me for ages to buy him a Fenians Silver Signet Ring, except suddenly he doesn’t seem as excited about it as he originally was?

“So,” I go, switching the play, coming in from a different angle, “how’s school?” Notice how I phrased that? “How’s school?” instead of, “Why the fock aren’t you there, by the way?”

That’s when he suddenly stops, at the pedestrian crossing opposite the Ambassador, and I watch his little eyes fill up with tears.

“Hey,” I go, putting my orm around his shoulder, “what’s all this about, Tough Guy?” hoping to God he’s not going to say he wants to leave Castlerock – what, two days after I shelled out seven Ks for him for the new term?

“It’s Bla,” he goes, meaning Blathin – in other words his ex? I was actually happy when he finished it with her. Much as I like her, he was way too young to be settling into something serious.

“What about her, Ro? Here, you’re not back with her, are you?”

“No,” he goes. “She’s arthur telling everyone in Mount Anville about me, but.”

“Telling them what exactly?”

“That Ine a bastard to women.” I laugh – I have to – because he’s still at that age where he thinks that’s an actual bad thing. I’m like, “Okay, first of all, how do you know all of this?”

“Because we’re doing a musical with them this year – the audishiddens were yesterday.”

“Auditions! Oh my God, that brings me back. What musical is it, by the way?”

“Seven Brides for Seven Brutters.” I end up just shaking my head. “That’s the exact same one we did. Okay, so what exactly happened?”

“Thee were all pointing at me, Rosser, whispering.”

“Whispering? What were they whispering?”

“Just, you know, stay away from him – that type of a thing. Thee all hate me, Rosser,” and that’s when the tears really stort to come. “Thee all hate me, so thee do.” I put my hands on his two shoulders and I crouch down to his level.

“Ro,” I go, “I’m obviously biased, but how could anyone in their right mind hate you?”

“Thee do, but.”

“They don’t. You’ve got yourself a reputation, that’s all. Already! At your age! Do you know how long it took me to get mine?”

“I don’t want a reputation, but.” I smile at him. It’s, like, the innocence of youth.

“Look, Ro, I think I might have mentioned to you once or twice how embarrassing it is to have a kid who’s already, like, five times more intelligent than me. I mean, you’re, what, two IQ points away from being considered officially gifted? There’s literally nothing that I can teach you. Except maybe this stuff – relationships and blah, blah, blah.”

He nods his little head. Poor kid. “I told you, didn’t I? If it’s, like, facts and figures – all that shit – you go see your teachers. If it’s this kind of thing – you might even say affairs of the hort – you come to me.”

“I’m coming to you now, Rosser.”

“Okay, first things first. You say that all these girls, like, hate you? Well, what you have to realise, when it comes to the old deadlier of the species, Ro, is that love and hate are just two sides of the same agenda.”

He looks Scooby Dubious, so I flash my phone at him. “Do you want to see the kind of names I’ve got in here on speed dial?”

“No,” he goes.

“Er, Leigh Arnold? Caroline Morahan?”

“Yeah, you’ve shown me loads of times, Rosser.”

“Well, that’s good. Because it proves that I know what I’m talking about. What girls love more than anything, I can tell you from past experience, is a whiff of danger, especially the daughters of the old Society of the Sacred Hort. And you have that whiff, Ro. Thanks to Blathin, you have that whiff. Did you get a port, by the way – in the musical?”

“Yeah. Adam.”

“Adam?” I go, literally unable to believe my ears. “Er, that’s the exact same port I had when we did it in, like, transition year. Oh my God, this is, like, history repeating itself. Actually, do you know what I did?”

“What?”

“Okay, this is actually how I got my rep in the first place? I ended up being with all seven brides.”

He’s like, “What?” and you can tell straight away that he’s seriously impressed.

“Yeah,” I go, “all seven. In horseracing, it’s called going through the cord.

“And of course every single one of them . . .” and I make the little punctuation morks with my fingers, “hated me.”

He suddenly smiles, and I instantly feel like the best father in the world, even though that’s obviously for other people to say.

“Come on,” I go, “let’s get you this IRA ring before the Sinn Féin shop closes.”

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