The old dear is on the phone, going, “How could you do it? My agent says I may have to go into hiding!”
“I thought you should have done that years ago,” I go, “you scabrous old trout.”
Pang gives me the thumbs up. There's no doubt we've warmed to each other.
"Now I have to go on television," the old dear goes, "and justify telling The Irish Times that I enjoyed that book, the one that little Chinesey girl told me about."
I’m there, “She happens to have a name and it happens to be Pang.”
Pang goes, “Put me on to her, the wagon.”
She’s picked up a few phrases while she’s been living with us, there’s no doubt about that.
I’m there, “No, I’ll handle this Pang. Stick the TV on. She’s going to be on talking about that book you told her to say she loved,” and then I go, “Here, what show are you on?”
The old dear's like, "Midday. It's on TV3. "
"TV3, Pang. Midday. With Elaine Crowley. Who I happen to have a major thing for."
Pang puts on the TV.
The old dear goes, “This is not a laughing matter, Ross. I’ve inadvertently endorsed a book that has offended feminists all over the world.”
“So just tell them the truth,” I go. “You were asked for your book of the year, you wanted to come across as cleverer than you actually are and you accidentally said you loved a book that’s being burned on university campuses all over the world.”
“I can’t climb down, Ross, that would make me look intellectually weak.”
"You are intellectually weak. We've got the same genes, remember."
“I shall have to use my famous rhetorical skills to try to talk my way out of it. Oh, the floor manager is calling me, Ross, I have to go.”
I pour Pang a glass of Coke and I grab myself a can of the old Miracle of Zoeterwoude, then we sit down to watch it.
Five minutes later, up comes the old dear’s face on the TV. Pang gets a bit of a fright. It’s a 64-inch screen, in fairness to the girl. “Whoa!” she goes. “The woman has a face like a war zone.”
I laugh – no choice. I’m like, “Good line, Pang! Genuinely good line!”
The old dear storts into her explanation then. “I would like to think that we are past the time in this country when we banned books, or even burned them, simply because we found the views expressed within their covers to be inconvenient or, yes, objectionable.”
There’s a bird on her right – I don’t know who she is – but she’s on her like a seagull on a dropped sausage roll. “No one here is talking about banning or burning it,” she goes. “I think we’re just interested in finding out what you enjoyed so much about a book that suggested euthanizing 60 million women worldwide every year to close the mortality gap between the genders.”
The old dear goes, “I think the figure was actually 50 million, if you cared to check your facts.”
“Oh, 50 million? You’re more comfortable with that figure, are you?”
"I'm not saying I agree with everything the author wrote."
“But you considered his book – what words did you use? – ‘important’ and ‘necessary’?”
“What I was really trying to do by saying that was to stort a conversation.”
“Okay, let’s have that conversation.”
“Well, I didn’t necessarily mean now.”
“No, let’s have it now – seeing as we’re all here. What was it about Nahuel Rodrigo-Maidana’s opinions that impressed you sufficiently to tell people to go and read his book.”
The old dear’s mouth is flapping open and closed like a landed carp.
"Well, em … well, em … in the book, if you cared to actually read it, he makes the case that life expectancy for men is more than five years lower than it is for women. This gentleman is simply making the point that, you know, if there is to be true equality between the genders, well, then it's necessary to, you know, even up the score a little bit."
“Even up the score a little bit?”
“It’s an intellectual argument. I think Radio 4 is a more suitable forum for it.”
"But, Fionnuala, do you not think the way to even up the score – as you put it – would be to try to increase the life expectancy for men, rather than lower it for women?"
If you passed my house at that point, you'd nearly swear there was a Leinster match on. I'm roaring at the TV, going, "Go on! Finish her off!"
Pang laughs. She’s like, “Your mother is getting destroyed!”
“I know. It’s hilarious.”
It goes on like this for a good 10 minutes until the item ends, then I stick the TV on mute.
“I actually love women,” I go. “I mean, I think there should be more of them, not less. Loads more. Double. Treble. The more the merrier, in fact. And I’d have them everywhere. If that makes me a feminist, then so be it.”
Pang laughs. She’s like, “You’re so funny.”
I’m there, “You’re pretty funny yourself, Pang.”
“Get me another Coke.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
“I’m going.”
I’m on the way to the fridge when my phone suddenly rings. It’s the old dear again. She goes, “They’ve had 6,000 text messages, Ross – not one of support.”
I’m there, “I’m not surprised. You made a total orse of yourself.”
She goes, “I’m going away for a little while. Until the heat dies down.”
I’m there, “That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said in a long, long time.” ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE