Operation Trumpsformation Read online

  Ross O’Carroll-Kelly

  (as told to Paul Howard)

  * * *

  OPERATION TRUMPSFORMATION

  Illustrated by

  ALAN CLARKE

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Home Sweet Homophobia

  2. Eirexit

  3. The Bart of the Deal

  4. To the Bleaten Dogs

  5. Don’t Mention the Wall

  6. Transition Year

  7. Dead in the Water

  8. Wiggyleaks

  9. Finally Facing My Waterloo (Road)

  10. It’ll Be Alt-right on the Night

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  To Róisín Ingle – for the gift of your friendship

  Prologue

  I don’t believe it. And I mean that quite literally. The code for the gate has been changed. I put in 2, 0, 0, 9 – the first year that Leinster won the Heineken Cup – but nothing happens. Then I try 2, 0, 1, 1 – the second year that Leinster won the Heineken Cup – except it ends up not being that either? So then I try 2, 0, 1, 2 – God, we won a lot of Heineken Cups – and that’s when I hear Sorcha’s voice coming through the intercom.

  She’s like, ‘What do you want, Ross?’ and she sounds more sad than angry?

  I look up at the security camera and I go, ‘Yeah, no, you changed the code.’

  She’s there, ‘I asked you what you wanted, Ross?’

  ‘Er,’ I go, ‘obviously I want to get in.’

  She’s like, ‘Ross, what part of “Our marriage is over!” do you not understand?’

  ‘I don’t accept that it is over. I’m still hoping you can find it in yourself to forgive me for what I did.’

  I rode a woman in Dalkey.

  She goes, ‘We agreed that Saturday was your day to see the children. You can’t just turn up randomly like this.’

  And I’m there, ‘I’m not turning up randomly. I, er, forgot something. When you focked me out.’

  ‘What did you forget?’

  ‘Yeah, no, my Rugby Tactics Book.’

  ‘Your Rugby Tactics Book? Okay, do you actually need it?’

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘As in, do you need it right now? Could it not wait until the weekend?’

  ‘After my heroics for Seapoint last week, I have to accept that a lot of clubs are going to be sniffing around me now – maybe not as a player, but you’d have to believe there’s a coaching role out there for me. That book contains my whole, I don’t know, psychology on the game.’

  The gate suddenly pops opens, and in I go. I trudge up the gravel driveway towards the gaff. She’s standing on the doorstep with her orms folded tightly. I’m a pretty good reader of body language. She definitely still wants me.

  I’m there, ‘You look well.’

  She doesn’t. She looks like shit – like she hasn’t slept for the past week. I suppose it’s possible that she hasn’t.

  She goes, ‘Just take whatever you came for, then go, Ross,’ refusing to even look at me.

  She turns sideways to let me in. I step past her into the hallway, then up the stairs I go. It’s not in its usual spot on the top of my bedside locker. As a matter of fact, I turn the entire bedroom upside-down looking for it, but it’s nowhere to be found. Then I just happen to stick my head around Honor’s bedroom door, to ask her if she’s seen it. And that’s when I spot it – on her bed! I’m like, ‘Okay, what the fock is it doing in here?’ and I stort flicking through it, just to make sure she hasn’t written anything rude in it, or drawn dicks all over it, like she’s done before.

  She hasn’t. There’s just the stuff I’ve already Tippexed out. It looks like I got here just in the nick of time. I tip downstairs with the book under my orm. Sorcha is still standing by the front door – again with her orms folded. I’m like, ‘So how have you been?’

  She goes, ‘How the fock do you think I’ve been, Ross?’

  Sorcha never swears? Except when she’s with her closest female friends and they’re all talking dirty, usually about Gordon D’Arcy or one of the Happy Pear goys. Vegward, as I call them.

  I’m there, ‘I know I’m repeating myself here, but that woman meant nothing. She put it on a plate for me. Made it nearly impossible for me to say no.’

  She bursts into tears. She goes, ‘You focking ruined everything, you stupid focking … focker! And for what, Ross? For what?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be the end, Sorcha.’

  ‘Do you honestly think I can just pretend it never happened?’

  ‘Hey, you’ve done it before – why not?’

  She dries her eyes with the tips of her fingers, then her expression suddenly hordens? ‘Not this time,’ she goes. ‘I deserve better.’

  I don’t think she means that. I notice she’s still wearing her wedding and engagement rings. That’s hopefully a sign that she might still take me back.

  I’m there, ‘Can I see the kids?’

  She goes, ‘You can see them on Saturday – like we agreed.’

  ‘Saturday is days away.’

  She lets out a roar at me then. She goes, ‘You should have thought of that before you slept with that focking slut!’

  I’m there, ‘Okay, sorry,’ and I’m just about to walk out the door when events suddenly take what might be described as a turn.

  I hear a voice – a dude’s voice? – coming from the kitchen. It’s like, ‘Are you going to eat your breakfasht, Leo?’

  My blood turns cold. Sorcha has another man in the house.

  This feeling of total and utter rage suddenly comes over me – it’s like the time I said hello to Conor Murray and Simon Zebo in Elverys on Stephen’s Green and they pretended not to know me. I’m like, ‘Who the fock is that?’

  Actually, that’s what Simon Zebo said as well.

  Sorcha goes, ‘It’s none of your business who it is, Ross.’

  And I’m there, ‘None of my business? I’ve only moved out, what, a week? And already some random dude is giving my children their breakfast?’

  ‘He’s not some random dude. His name happens to be Magnus.’

  ‘Magnus?’

  I don’t know if it’s the ridiculous name, or the casual way that Sorcha mentions him, or even the memory of Conor Murray laughing at me as I tried on the new Leinster Alternate Test jersey, then discovered, as I tried to pull it down over my belly, that it was actually the fitted women’s version. But I head for the kitchen in an absolute rage, with Sorcha following me, going, ‘Ross, no! Get out! Get out of this house now!’

  I push the kitchen door. Honor is sitting at the table. Brian, Johnny and Leo are in their high chairs. Their faces obviously light up when they see me, but I’m more interested in the total stranger who’s trying to get them to eat their unsweetened quinoa porridge with mashed Bortlett pear. What makes it even worse is that the dude – yeah, no, I’m going to admit this – is a seriously good-looking goy. He’s, like, blond, square jaw and six-foot-three, possibly six-foot-four in height – which I wouldn’t have thought was Sorcha’s type. She was always more into backs than forwards.

  I somehow resist the temptation to straightaway deck him. Instead, I just go, ‘Who the fock are you?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Honor goes, obviously delighted by this development. ‘Plot twist!’

  ‘Hey, I’m Magnush,’ the dude has the actual balls to go, ‘and you musht be Rosh, Shorcha’s hushband, yesh?’

  I’m picking up an accent – it sounds like Drogheda or somewhere up that way.

  ‘Maybe I should have been more specific,’ I go. ‘Who the fock are you and what the fock are you doing in my house?’

  ‘Fock you,’ Leo shouts, because the triplets are still going through their phase of effing and blinding at every turn and we’re still going through our phase of doing fock-all about it in the hope that they’ll one day just stop. ‘Fock you, you focking cunting fock-fock!’

  This Magnus dude goes, ‘Well, at thish moment, I am giving the cheeldren their breakfasht. Shorcha, you should eat shome breakfasht, too. I’m shorry to tell you, Rosh, that your wife and I heff been up all night.’

  That ends up being the line that snaps my crayons. I literally launch myself across the kitchen at the dude. I don’t give a fock how tall he is. I grab him by the front of his shirt and I slam him up against the two-door American fridge-freezer.

  Sorcha actually screams. She’s like, ‘Nooo!!!’

  Honor goes, ‘Hit him, Dad!’ the excitement obvious in her voice. ‘Hit him!’

  I’m there, ‘You’ve got a neck like Ruby Walsh’s understuff, I’ll give you that.’

  He’s tugging at my fingers, trying to loosen the grip I have on him. ‘What ish … what ish wrong?’ he manages to go.

  ‘You and my wife,’ I go, ‘up all night, were you? And you say it to me in front of my kids?’

  Sorcha storts grabbing me, going, ‘Ross, it’s not what you think!’

  But Honor’s there, ‘It is what you think. He said he wants us to think of him as our father. He told me I have to call him Daddy.’

  I cock my fist, ready to drive it into the dude’s big handsome face, when all of a sudden I feel something crack me across the back of the skull, causing me to release my grip and hit the deck. When my head clears, which takes a good thirty seconds, I notice that it’s the Le Creuset cast-iron square Grillit that I bought Sorcha last year. She’s certainly getting the use out of
it, despite her view at the time that it wasn’t a proper Valentine’s Day present.

  ‘Get out!’ she goes, screaming at me at the top of her voice. ‘Get out of this house!’

  I’m there, ‘Seriously, Sorcha?’ climbing to my feet and checking the back of my head for blood. ‘I haven’t been gone a week and you’ve already moved on. There’s a word for girls like that, Sorcha. I’m not going to say it. But you were the one who mentioned “slut” earlier.’

  ‘Focking slut!’ Leo goes.

  Sorcha’s like, ‘I haven’t moved on!’ still roaring at me, by the way. ‘This is Magnus, our new manny!’

  Oh, shit.

  I’m there, ‘Your manny? What the fock is a manny?’

  She’s like, ‘What does it sound like, Ross? He’s a male nanny. I said I was going to hire someone to help me with the children while I’m working on the campaign.’

  ‘What campaign?’

  ‘Oh my God, I told you six weeks ago that me and Muirgheal are going to be working for the Yes side in the same-sex marriage referendum.’

  Muirgheal is Christian’s new squeeze. Her and Sorcha set up the Mount Anville Africa Project, which aims to heighten awareness of how generally shit life is over there by sending more than a hundred transition year students to Botswana every year to see it for themselves.

  She’s there, ‘I told you that once we’d tackled the whole Africa thing, marriage equality was next.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘the whole BGT thing. See, I was listening?’

  ‘BGT is Britain’s Got Talent. The actual acronym is LGBT. But then I wouldn’t expect you to know that.’

  ‘I thought you were hiring, like, a nanny. I’m not sure I like the idea of another man living under my roof.’

  Honor goes, ‘I really think you should break his nose, Dad. You would if you were any kind of man.’

  Magnus is like, ‘Well, you heff nothing to worry about from me on that shcore – right, Shorcha? Becaush I am gay.’

  I’m like, ‘Gay? Hang on, what did you mean when you said the two of you were up all night?’

  ‘I’m shorry,’ he goes, ‘shometimes my English ish – how to shay? – not sho good.’

  ‘Where are you even from? I would have put money on Louth. You talk like one of the Kearneys.’

  ‘I’m from Finland.’

  ‘Finland?’

  Yeah, no, it’s a new one on me as well.

  I’m there, ‘Random.’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Sorcha goes, ‘but he was helping me write a speech. I’m giving a talk this morning to my grandmother’s Active Retirement group. We’re trying to win over the horts and minds of senior voters who have a more conservative view of marriage.’

  Honor goes, ‘They’re lying, Ross. They’ve been having an affair. They’re laughing at you – like that rugby man when you put on that women’s top.’

  I’m on the point of nearly apologizing to the dude when I hear a voice in the hall, which I recognize straightaway. It’s Sorcha’s old man.

  ‘Fock!’ Leo shouts, summing up my thoughts exactly. ‘Fock this focking focker.’

  The door of the kitchen opens and in he walks – the Fresh Prince of Bell-End. Of course, his face drops when he sees his daughter looking all upset and the Rossmeister standing there next to her.

  He’s like, ‘What the hell is he doing here?’

  I’m there, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not staying. I just came for my Rugby Tactics Book.’

  Sorcha’s old dear walks in behind him. She decides to have her say then? Which is a shame, because I was a fan. She goes, ‘Sorcha has made it perfectly clear to you that she doesn’t want you here anymore.’

  Of course, Sorcha decides to give us the full costume drama then – waterworks and everything. Her old dear puts her orm around her and goes, ‘Ross, this isn’t your home anymore. Please leave.’

  I’m there, ‘I’m not accepting that it’s over. I’m still hoping that we can work it out.’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Why are we even wasting our breath on him? If you don’t leave this house this instant, I shall be forced to phone the Gardaí.’

  I’m there, ‘Don’t worry. I’m going. I’ll see you on Saturday, kids.’

  ‘Fock you!’ Brian goes. ‘You focking wanker!’ and out of there I walk, chin up, shoulders back. Of course, Sorcha’s old man has to have the last word. A lawyer, bear in mind. He follows me outside.

  I go, ‘By the way, how are things up in the old Beacon South Quarter?’ because I know it’s a sore point that he’s ended up living there. ‘I hear the hospital has taken over one of the vacant aportment blocks for its kidney patients. I’d say it’s a cheery focking place to be these days.’

  He goes, ‘You and my daughter are finished. I don’t want you bothering her again.’

  I actually laugh. I’m there, ‘I think you’re terrified that she still might take me back.’

  ‘There isn’t a chance in hell.’

  ‘Look, I slept with another woman. It was put in front of me. Gift-horse in the mouth. But Sorcha’s still wearing her wedding and engagement rings. What does that tell you?’

  ‘Believe me. All you are to my daughter is a bad memory and some paperwork, which I’m more than happy to do.’

  I notice his cor porked in front of the house. A 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe. A focking tramp wouldn’t sleep in it. I look at it and laugh to myself and he pretends that it doesn’t piss him off.

  ‘What saddens me,’ he goes, ‘is that an intelligent girl like Sorcha could have allowed herself to be held back by someone like you for so long.’

  I’m like, ‘Held back?’

  ‘Sorcha could have done anything with her life. She could have been anyone she wanted to be.’

  ‘Jesus, she did Orts in UCD. Would you wind your focking neck in?’

  ‘Well, luckily, she’s still young enough to pick up the pieces and make her mark on the world. Which she will do – you can be sure of that. Once she divests herself of you.’

  ‘Divests herself? Is that even a word?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a word.’

  ‘I’ll Google it. We’ll see.’

  I press the button on my cor key – a brand-new Audi A8 – just to let him know what I’m driving these days? He tries to look like it doesn’t bother him.

  ‘What you fail to grasp,’ he goes, ‘is that when it comes to the divorce business, I know every trick in the book. I invented many of them.’

  ‘Divorce hasn’t been mentioned yet. All we are is separated.’

  ‘It’s over. You’re finished here. And by the time I’m done with you, you won’t have that fancy car. You won’t have a home. You won’t have a wife and you won’t have your children.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m going to ruin your life – just like you ruined my daughter’s.’

  1. Home Sweet Homophobia

  The old man is in the jacks. He’s standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection, going, ‘Look at you! You colossus! You winner of hearts! You leader of men!’

  I’m just watching him, thinking how much of a knob he’s become since he found that wig in Helen’s attic and stuck it on his head. He’s, like, running his fingers through it, smoothing it across his head and he’s going, ‘You’re a lion! You’re strong! You’re virile! And this is the moment you were bloody well born for!’

  I’m there, ‘You know, it’s an actual miracle that I turned out to be the genuinely lovely goy that I am.’

  He’s not even embarrassed to find out that I’ve been standing there listening to him the entire time. ‘Hello there, Kicker!’ he goes. ‘I’m running through some vocal exercises. Vox Populi, Vox Dei and what-not!’

  This is in the Morker Hotel, by the way. We’re here for the launch of this new political porty of his – New Republic or whatever he’s calling it. There must be, like, five hundred people in the main conference room – we’re talking reporters from all the papers, radio and TV stations, then a load of just randomers who’ve turned up to hear Charles O’Carroll-Kelly outline his vision for a new Ireland.

  I’m here for the free bor.

  He goes, ‘I was talking to your mother this morning. She said she hasn’t seen you.’

  I’m like, ‘Er, yeah, that might have something to do with the fact that she’s in prison?’