A DAD'S LIFE:The Six Nations is one event I insist on viewing
'RIGHT, THIS IS the way it's going to work. I've got the telly in the living room for the game. That includes pre-match analysis and post-match discussion. You can drive yourselves blind with iCarlyand Saddle Clubeither side of that, but for those few hours you're staying out of my face. Right?"
They’re ever so indignant. Side by side on the couch, the look on their faces like I’ve promised them Disneyland and delivered an agricultural show.
The elder takes responsibility for emoting their disappointment on occasions when I’ve offended sensibilities. The younger nodding along, elbowing her.
“And what are we supposed to do for all that time if you’re hogging the telly?” Seriously, the eyes bugging out of her at the injustice.
For a second I picture our living room on a Saturday afternoon in 1980. The curtains pulled, the old man settled into an afternoon of ITV racing, form on the lap, bets made.
I imagine the response if I'd sauntered through the door, "Oi, old man, get Brough Scott's dulcet foreign tones off the old goggle box and flick the switch. I got the Dukes of Hazzardto watch."
My misty-eyed memories are interrupted with a kick: “There’s nothing for us to do.”
Of course there’s nothing for them to do. Apart from hit the trampoline, take out their bikes, play with their hundreds of model ponies and pieces of Playmobil that cover every surface inch of the house, listen to music or read a book. I acknowledge my monstrous ask and suggest an alternative.
There is no point listing what I have listed above. It is TV access that has been denied, therefore TV access is all that is wanted. I have played this game before. I have skills.
“Right.” (I like to start and finish my declarative statements to them with a ‘right’ as it suggests military overtones, that what is to follow will not be questioned. I do this because it may have worked once before.) “Here’s the timetable. I have made lunch of bread rolls and a choice of cheese and jam. If you finish your lunch, you may choose a doughnut from the selection I procured at the bakery this morning.” (Doughnuts and bread rolls – serious bribery in the offing.)
“After you’re done, should you not wish to adjourn outside on this glorious spring day, you have the option of watching a movie, of your choice, from Netflix on my laptop. Right?”
This situation has been planned for. The Six Nations is under way, one of the few sporting events I insist on watching and, for 10 years, domestic enjoyment of these encounters has been curtailed by the exasperation of small girls who simply do not get it.
Today, I’m on my own with them while the game is on, and they will leave me (to quote another columnist with a fondness for rugby) the fock alone.
I feed them, I set up the connection, we pick the movie ( Honey, I Shrunk The Kids,God bless 'em) and I'm off to listen to Hookey and Popey and O'Shea-ey. All good, except the small girls decide the only room they can watch their movie in is the same one as me. Go ahead, kick off in 10 minutes, just sshhh.
I’m not a good spectator. The years have calmed me but the Irish rugby team still pushes buttons like no other. Soon, I realise more attention is being paid to my blasphemies and psychotic utterances than to Rick Moranis. Another error, I catch the coffee table with a right foot and a side plate smashes.
“Dad, take it easy. And will you please turn that down? We can’t hear a thing.”
I turn the gaze on them like a laser. In there, in that little box, the boys in green are conspiring to make my afternoon as stressful possible. But I can’t get my hands on Donncha O’Callaghan and Paulie, lucky for them, but these two in front of me, sat on the couch. They know what they’re doing, they know the possible repercussions, they don’t care. They laugh my laser glare back at me.
Wind-up merchants. They have an open afternoon, a smorgasboard of entertainment available to them, and what do they choose to do? Poke the bear. Go on, he’ll growl and roar. Look at him, big hairy funny bear. Poke him. Poke him!
abrophy@irishtimes.com