The old man has a Cohiba the size of a Wavin pipe wedged between his teeth and I end up having to open the window so I don’t die of smoke inhalation.
“The fock are we even doing here?” I go.
Yeah, no, we’re sitting in the dude’s chauffeur-driven Merc in the cor pork of Castlerock College — even though I’ve no idea why?
He goes, “Well, as you know, this pal of yours—”
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I’m like, “Who, Fionn?”
“Yes, he’s determined to press ahead with his plan to make Castlerock College coeducational — quote, unquote — from next month. I’ve tried to reason with him.”
“Er, you flattened the school library.”
“Yes, I tried that as well. And none of it has worked. And so I’ve decided to pursue a more torgeted strategy.”
“In terms of?”
“I’m going to contact the parents of all of these girls who’ve been enrolled here and offer them an incentive to send their children to one of the Loretos instead. I’ll pay their fees for the next six years. I’ll even put them through college if that’s what I have to do to end this nonsense.”
[ Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘I wonder sometimes are these kids definitely mine’Opens in new window ]
I go, “So how are you going to get your hands on their contact details?” and the dude just smiles at me through a haze of cigor smoke.
I’m like, “No focking way. I’m not breaking into the dude’s office.”
“Oh, relax, Kicker,” he goes. “A job like this requires a professional — someone with specialist skills.”
At that exact moment, the back door of the cor is thrown open and standing there, dressed in a black boiler suit, with a — quite literally — balaclava in his hand is my son, Ronan.
He’s like, “Budge up theer, Rosser,” and he gets into the back seat beside us.
“Ronan,” the old man goes, “let’s go over the plan one more time? Ross and I will enter the school and we’ll open the emergency door at the end of the corridor where the famous Fionn has his office. We’ll coax the chap out and keep him talking while you enter the school via the open door, then search his computer for the student roll.”
I turn around to the old man and I’m like, “No focking way — you’re not making a criminal of my son.”
“A criminoddle,” Ronan goes, shaking his head. “Would you ebber ast me boddicks, Rosser. Mon — let’s get this dudden.”
We all get out of the cor. Me and the old man walk into the school while Ronan tips around the back of the building. We make our way to Fionn’s office. On the way there, the old man pushes the bor on the emergency exit and leaves the door slightly ajor.
To say that Fionn is surprised to see us is a serious understatement.
“I’m calling the Gords,” the dude goes, reaching for the phone.
The old man’s like, “Look, I’ll rebuild your library, Fionn. I’ve come here today to tell you I’ve had a change of hort.”
Fionn’s expression changes.
“I’ve decided to drop my objection,” the old man goes, “to the idea of, well, girls in Castlerock College. Having reflected on it, I’ve realised that Charles O’Carroll-Kelly can be a bit of a dinosaur in respect of some of his opinions.”
Fionn puts the phone down. He goes, “There’s no smoking permitted on the school premises.”
The old man sort of, like, smiles to himself.
“You know, when I was a student here,” he goes, “the sixth years had their own smoking room! The Pinar del Rio Club, we called it! It’s where I smoked my first Montecristo! Walk with me, Fionn!”
The old man heads for the door and — yeah, no — Fionn follows him. Two minutes later, we’re outside in the sunshine and Fionn — who’s a lot more gullible than I would have believed — is going, “What you said in your letter to The Irish Times—”
“What,” the old man goes, “about women having smaller brains than men?”
Fionn’s there, “About girls dragging down educational standards. Girls consistently outperform boys academically and yet men still hold 95 per cent of top positions in our lorgest public companies. None of that will change until we stort tackling these — like you said, Chorles — prehistoric modes of thinking.”
“Well, you’ve certainly changed my mind,” the old man goes, putting a big, meaty orm around Fionn’s shoulder. He really is a piece of sh**, in fairness to him.
All of a sudden, my phone rings. It’s, like, Ronan. I’m there, “You goys keep walking. I need to take this.”
I answer it.
“What’s he’s passwoord,” Ronan goes.
I’m there, “Fock, I don’t know.”
“It’ll be something he lubs.”
“I remember he was big into some poet called, I don’t know, Rambo or some sh**. He did, like, a Masters on him — or her.”
“Do you mean Rimbaud?”
“No idea.”
I hear him tapping away on the keys.
“No,” he goes, “it’s not Rimbaud. Hang on, I’ve an idea. That’s it. Got it. Ine in.”
I’m like, “What was it?” but he’s already hung up.
Fionn is still banging on. He’s going, “Girls are more disciplined about their schoolwork. They study horder. They’re better behaved in class. They achieve higher morks. And this is the exciting thing, Chorles — by setting a higher educational bor, studies have shown, boys stort to achieve higher morks too.”
My phone beeps. It’s, like, a text message from Ro. It’s like, “Job done.”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, that’s all fascinating, Fionn. We, er, better hit the road, Dad.”
We hop into the back of the cor and Fionn waves us off with a big smile on his face. He loves to feel like he’s taught someone something. That’s his big weakness.
Ronan hops into the cor at the bottom of the hill and he hands the old man a USB stick.
He goes, “They’re all on theer, Grandda.”
“A higher educational bor,” the old man chuckles to himself. “Who gives a fig about such things!”
I turn to Ronan. I’m like, “What was the password in the end?”
He goes, “Sudeka.”
“What?”
“Sudeka.”
“Again.”
“Sudeka.”
“Are you trying to say Sorcha?”
“I am saying Sudeka.”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, that’s right — he, er, used to have a thing for her.”
He goes, “He’s screensaber is a pitcher of her on yisser wetton day — with your pitcher cropped out. Hate to break it to you, Rosser, but I think he’s still in lub with your wife.”
