Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘I could tell you the word she used except “The Irish Times” probably wouldn’t print it’

‘Come on, Ross!” Sorcha goes. “Where’s the horm?”

I'm there, "It just feels like, I don't know, spying? "

"Don't be ridiculous – this is our actual daughter we're talking about! And she's about to teach the Mount Anville Musical Society the songs she's written for the school musical!"

This is the famous South Side Story – Honor's modern day, south Dublin take on the original, exploring the bitter gang rivalry between the children from Educate As One, a staunchly multidenominational school in Sandycove, and Gaelscoil Naomh Eithne, a Catholic, Irish-speaking national school in Glasthule.

Sorcha goes, “All we’re going to do is listen from outside the door. If she sees us, we’ll just say we came to collect her and we must have got the time wrong.”

So into the school we go. We stand at the door of the concert hall, looking through the little window. Honor is onstage, sitting at the piano, while all of the other girls are filling the first five rows of seats, song sheets in their hands, hanging on her every word.

"Okay," she goes, "this next song is sung by the Educate As One kids. It comes just after Tony has serenaded Maria on the fire escape and promised to become a Catholic and learn Irish so they can be together. This is their statement of who they are and it's sung to the tune of America."

Sorcha is grinning at me like an idiot. She goes, “Oh my God, Ross, that’s our little girl up there!”

Honor storts playing the piano and singing. She goes:

Life is okay when you’re secular!

No need to pray when you’re secular!

No Allah, no God, we are secular!

No Jews and no Prods, we are secular!

A new kind of school, we are secular!

We’re smug and we’re cool, we are secular!

A flat playing pitch, we are secular!

Our parents are rich, we are secular!

All of a sudden, a voice shouts, “Stop!”

Sorcha’s face just drops. “Oh my God,” she goes, “that’s Miss Pallister, Honor’s music teacher.”

This old biddy steps out of the wings and on to the actual stage. She goes, “You can’t sing that song! I won’t allow it!”

We both watch Honor's little shoulders horden. She goes, "Excuse me?"

I already feel sorry for Miss Pallister – for what she’s about to invite on herself.

"This isn't the type of musical I had in mind when I asked you to write a south Dublin version of West Side Story," she goes. "Do you not realise that these songs could offend people?"

“But I offend both sides,” Honor – not unreasonably – goes. “I haven’t sung you the Catholic Gaelscoil song yet.”

She goes:

I feel guilty, Oh so guilty,

I feel guilty and sinful and bad,

And I pity,

Any girl without God for a dad.

“Stop it!” Miss Pallister shouts. “Stop it this instant! Girls, tear up those song sheets! Do it! Do it now!”

All of the girls rip up the lyrics that Honor spent literally hours at the piano writing.

“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “this isn’t going to be pleasant to watch.”

Honor’s face turns beetroot red.

I’m there, “Let’s just go back to the cor.”

Except we don’t get a chance to move, because Honor all of a sudden explodes. She rips into Miss Pallister with a fury I’ve honestly never seen before. She calls the poor woman every B name, F name, M name and – yes – C name under the sun.

It’s not the kind of thing you expect to hear from your 10-year-old daughter. Fifteen, maybe – when she’s arrived home from supposedly studying in a friend’s house, dressed like a hooker and smelling of spirits. But not 10!

Miss Pallister just stands there with her mouth open. That’s all you can do when our daughter storts ripping you – just hunker down and wait for the storm to pass.

Eventually, it does. Honor jumps down off the stage and storts stomping towards the exit – which happens to be the door we're, like, standing behind? There's no time for us to hide. She pushes it and we step backwards. She sees us standing there, except she's in such a rage she doesn't seem to think it's unusual.

She goes, "That woman is a –" and I could tell you the word she uses except The Irish Times probably wouldn't print it.

She storms out of the building. Sorcha goes, "Oh! My God! I am so embarrassed!"

I’m like, “Leave this to me, Sorcha. This is a job for her dad.”

I follow her outside to the cor pork, where I find her keying a cor – presumably Miss Pallister’s. She stops when she sees me.

I go, “Where did you learn language like that?”

She’s there, “Have you ever listened to yourself watching rugby? Swearing at that man?”

I laugh because I know she's talking about Dan Biggar.

I’m there, “Doing the Macarena – just kick the focking ball, you dope!”

She laughs – she tries not to, but she does?

I’m there, “The first thing I want to say to you is fair focks to you for standing up for yourself. The second thing is that you need to go in there and apologise.”

She goes, "Er, why would I apologise?"

“Because you’re cleverer than this. You’re going to go home and write some new songs – just to keep her happy. But you’re also going to secretly rehearse the old songs with the cast. Then, on the night, when the concert hall is full and it’s too late for her to do anything about it, you’re going to put on the show that you want to put on.”

She stares at me for a long time, then suddenly, out of nowhere, she throws her orms around my waist and she hugs me very hord.

I used to think God put me on this planet to win Heineken Cups and Six Nations championships. I was wrong. It turns out that my job was to be an amazing, amazing father – and much as I hate patting myself on the back, it's pretty clear that I'm nailing it.

“Come on,” I go, taking her by the hand, “let’s go and say sorry to the old bag.”

ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE