So I’m standing at the trough in The Queens in Dalkey, having a much-needed slash, when I hear a voice beside me go, “Is that the famous Ross O’Carroll-Kelly I see?”
I turn my head and it ends up being – yeah, no – Santa Claus, who just so happens to be having a slash too.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, it’s me alright.”
He’s like, “How have you been?”
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
“I’ve been good,” I go. “I’ve been… a good boy.”
I suppose there’s a little bit of me that will always believe?
He goes, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
I’m there, “You’re Santa Claus,” which he finds absolutely hilarious.
He grabs his beard and he pulls it down.
“Luke McGeeney,” he goes. “We were in UCD together.”
I’m there, “Ah, Luke, right,” a little bit disappointed with him – if I’m being honest – for breaking character. “How the hell are you?”
He’s like, “All good, my friend. I’m playing Santa Claus this year in the Heritage Centre.”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, so I see.”
Luke McGeeney – like he said – did the Sportsman Dip course with me in UCD back in the day. He wasn’t much of a player. Let’s just say he’s more convincing as Santa Claus than he ever was as an outside-centre.
He’s like, “So what are you doing these days?”
“Fock-all,” I go, “thankfully. What about you?”
He’s there, “Yeah, no, I’m working with the Leinster Academy – on the technical side of things.”
I somehow resist the temptation to go, where’s the focking justice in that?
We both move over to the sink to wash our hands.
He’s there, “I was actually looking to reach out to you, believe it or not.”
I’m like, “Reach out to me? Er, why?”
“I was wondering would you be interested in doing a few skills sessions with the new academy players next year?”
I’m there, “Are you taking the piss?”
“No,” he goes, “it’s something we’re constantly talking about – the number of great players out there who’ve still got something to contribute in terms of their knowledge. It’s actually a resource and we need to become better at tapping into it.”
He dries his hands, then storts patting down his suit. He’s there, “I’m sorry, I don’t have a business cord on me. But I’ll contact you.”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, coola bualadh. Good luck this afternoon – with the whole, like, Santa thing?”
He’s there, “Yeah, should be a bit of fun.”
“Actually,” I go, “you’ll be seeing my... ” and I just manage to stop myself telling him that my kids are already queuing up with their old dear to see him. Who knows what the little psychopaths might do or say to him. “Forget it. I’ll talk to you soon,” and I make a sort of, like, telephone shape with my hand.
Off he focks and I go back to the bor, feeling unbelievably good about myself. Talk about all your Christmases coming at once. I ask one of the lounge girls for a pen, then I stort sketching out ideas for set-piece moves on the back of, like, cocktail napkins – we’re talking proper A Beautiful Mind shit – so excited that a good hour passes before I realise that I didn’t even ask the dude about my fee and expenses. That’s what an absolute animal I am when it comes to rugby.
I’m just polishing off my fifth pint when Sorcha arrives with the boys in tow and I can’t help but notice that she has a bit of a face on her.
I’m there, “What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” she goes. “Santa Claus is what’s wrong.”
There’s no point in lying to him. But I give it a go anyway. I’m there, “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life”
I’m like, “Oh, fock. What happened?” half-expecting her to tell me that one of our children knifed him.
She’s there, “Johnny asked him, Ross, how he managed to deliver presents to the entire world in a single night.”
I’m like, “It’s not a bad question. It proves he’s a tactical thinker,” and I show Johnny the cocktail napkins. “Like your old man, huh?”
“Anyway,” she goes, trying to move us off the subject of rugby, “Santa said that he gets help – from his reindeers.”
I’m there, “Good answer.”
“Good answer?” she goes. “So, even in this day and age, you don’t see anything problematic with the story of animals being overworked to that degree?”
I’m there, “I’ve, er, never really thought about it.”
“Evidently,” she goes. “And neither had he. Then he changed his story and said that he travelled around the world on an actual spaceship!”
I’m like, “That’s some impressive thinking on his feet right there.”
You can see why the Leinster Branch hired him. Useless as he was as a player, I’d imagine he interviews well.
“I pointed out to him,” Sorcha goes, “that a spaceship consumes 11,000 pounds of fossil fuel per second on lift-off alone – which is, like, two million times the rate at which fuel is burned by the average family cor.”
I’m there, “You actually said that to him?”
“I didn’t just say it to him, Ross. I said it to Cora.”
“Cora?”
“Cora Courtney – she’s in chorge of the Christmas programme this year. I also mentioned that I’m pretty sure I smelled drink off his breath?”
I jump up from my stool. I’m like, “Okay, let’s get the fock out of here.”
She’s like, “What? Ross, what’s wrong?” but I’m already out on the street.
Ten seconds later, we’re in the church cor pork and I’m waiting for her to open the door of the Prius. That’s when I spot Luke, looking seriously pissed off, getting into – in fairness to him – a BMW X5.
Ding-dong-merrily-on-shite, I think.
I immediately get down on my hunkers so he can’t see me and I pretend to tie my Dubes. The next thing I hear is him going, “Yeah, thanks a focking bunch. I just got sacked because of you.”
Then Sorcha’s like, “I just think, if you’re going to play the port of Santa Claus, you should think a little bit more about the messaging that you send to children.”
He goes, “I had one beer in the Queens,” and I can hear him getting closer and closer, “and it was non-alcoholic.”
All of a sudden, he’s standing right next to me, looking down at me. He’s like, “Ross? Is this… your wife?”
I’m busted. There’s no point in lying to him. But I give it a go anyway.
I’m there, “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.”
