Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: “Women are very important to New Republic, Sorcha”

“God, I love Miriam Lord! Sometimes something will happen and I’ll be thinking, ‘Oh, dear, what’s our friend going to make of this tomorrow morning? It’ll be something bloody well priceless”

Sorcha hasn't touched her chicken paillards with pancetta and sage. She's obviously got something on, like, her mind? I'm giving her 60 seconds, then I'm making a grab for her plate. Helen's an unbelievable cook and I'm so hungry I could eat a child through an orphanage letterbox.

"This is rather nice, isn't it?" the old man goes. "The four of us having dinner like this. The New Republic Teachta Dála-elect for the constituency of Dublin Bay South, the next Taoiseach of Ireland, plus their significant others, breaking bread together!"

“Chorles,” Sorcha goes, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

The old man’s there, “Talk away, Sorcha. My door is always open. Although, as Hennessy always adds, ‘Unfortunately for you, it’s a revolving door – just keep pushing it, chump!’” and then he laughs for a good 30 seconds, shakes his head and goes, “Hennessy! Coghlan! O’Hara! Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face!”

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He’s as pissed as a parrot – I don’t know if it’s necessary to add that detail.

Sorcha’s like, “Er, well, the thing is, Chorles, I had my brunch briefing this morning – for the women political correspondents?”

“Women?” he goes, suddenly all serious, like a man trying to remember did he lock the cor.

Sorcha’s like, “Yes, women.”

“Women are very important to New Republic, Sorcha.”

“That’s, em, good to hear.”

“We’re very much in favour of them.”

“Well, they do represent more than 50 per cent of the electorate.”

"Is it really that much? Good heavens! Tell me, was Miriam Lord there?"

“Er, yes – yes, she was.”

"God, I love Miriam Lord! Sometimes something will happen and I'll be thinking, 'Oh, dear, what's our friend going to make of this tomorrow morning? It'll be something bloody well priceless– you see if it's not!' Helen here will tell you I'm already laughing before I've even found the bloody well page. Castigat ridendo mores!"

“Hmmm.”

“Did she say anything humorous during this – what did you say it was, brunch?”

“Brunch, yes. The thing is, Chorles, it wasn’t that kind of a briefing.”

“Oh?”

"As in, it wasn't, like, jokey?"

“Wasn’t jokey? What do you mean, it wasn’t jokey? I know what you girls are like when you all get together – isn’t that right, Kicker?”

"Yeah, no," I go, "I'm not actually listening to you? If that changes any time in the next 50 years, I'll be sure to let you know."

Sorcha goes, “I’m saying that wasn’t the actual atmosphere. Chorles, there are a lot of issues affecting women.”

He’s there, “Issues have been affecting women since the day Adam woke up and found himself a rib short!”

"Chorles, I'm talking about serious issues? As the party's Spokesperson on Environment, Community, Sustainability and Issues Surrounding Sustainability – who also happens to be a woman – what I have to say is obviously of interest."

“Say about what?”

“You know about what.”

"Not that?"

"Yes, Chorles, I'm talking about that. I'm talking about – "

“Don’t even say the word. I don’t think it’s a fitting subject for –”

“What, the dinner table?”

“I was going to say I don’t think it’s a fitting subject for a political party riding high in the opinion polls and for a party leader whose approval rating is second only to that of the Mayor of Islandeady himself.”

“But what do we believe in, Chorles – as, like, a porty?”

“We believe that human beings are happiest when they’re governed by sensible men of considerable means.”

“But we don’t have a position on anything.”

“Positions have a habit of alienating voters.”

“But this particular issue –”

The old man suddenly brings his fist down on the table. He, like, roars at her. He’s like, “This conversation is over!”

Helen stands up. She’s like, “Excuse me – just for a moment,” and I use the distraction to grab Sorcha’s plate and swap it for my empty one. Like I said, the things that woman can do with a Le Creuset roaster and a fistful of rock salt.

Sorcha goes, "Chorles, I'm not going to let you browbeat me into silence, as a woman or as a member of the party executive. I was asked a question during the briefing. A question on the record . . ."

He looks at her like she’s a ball in a sand bunker. He’s like, “You don’t mean –”

She’s there, “Yes, Chorles, I answered it.”

“But we don’t have an opinion on that issue.”

“Well, I answered as, like, a private citizen?”

“As a private what?”

“I’m saying that I prefaced my answer with the words, ‘I myself personally’.”

He ends up, like, totally exploding at her. He's like, "How dare you go against party policy!" and he basically roars it?

I’d weigh in and defend the girl, except she’s doing pretty alright herself – she debated for Mount Anville, bear in mind – and my mouth is full of chicken.

She goes, “I’m entitled to an opinion, Chorles.”

He’s like, “You’re not. Your job is to serve the party, not to go making statements as – what was it? – a private citizen? Oh, this is going to damage us in the polls – you see if it doesn’t.”

Sorcha just, like, shakes her head and rolls her eyes. I saw her do that in debates back in the day. She’s like, “Do you know what the really hilarious thing is here? You haven’t even asked me if I said I was pro- or anti–.”

“It doesn’t bloody well matter,” he goes. “Haven’t you ever heard of the phrase, politics is the art of something, something?”

I look up to see Helen standing in the doorway. The first thing that strikes me is that she’s wearing her coat and that she has a bag in her hand. The old man looks at her and he’s like, “What the devil is going on?”

And Helen goes, “I’m leaving you, Chorles.”