Schmidt Happens Read online

  Ross O’Carroll-Kelly

  (as told to Paul Howard)

  * * *

  SCHMIDT HAPPENS

  Illustrated by ALAN CLARKE

  Contents

  Prologue: If You’re New to This Channel, Welcome!

  1. The Anti-Trump Fashion Item of the Season!

  2. It’s All about the Bag!

  3. Unboxing This Year’s Most Essential Lifestyle Accessory!

  4. Faux Pas to Avoid on Your Confirmation Day!

  5. What to Pack in Your Going-Away Bag!

  6. A New and Exciting Interior Make-Over!

  7. Outfit of the Day is a Canterbury Drill Top!

  8. How to Style a Surgical Collar!

  9. Every Woman’s Absolute Must-Have!

  10. The One Piece I Couldn’t Live Without!

  Epilogue: Don’t Forget to Hit the Subscribe Button!

  For Gerry Murtagh

  Prologue: If You’re New to This Channel, Welcome!

  I’m a sensitive man. It’s one of the qualities I most love about myself, even though it doesn’t get talked about as much as, say, my grapefruit biceps, my ravioli pecs and my handsome villain smile. But I’m definitely, definitely sensitive, especially when it comes to the needs of my children.

  That’s kind of how we’ve ended up in Horvey Nichs this afternoon. Sorcha is being dischorged from Holles Street tomorrow morning. She’s going to be arriving home with a brand-new baby boy. Which is why it’s important to let Honor and the triplets know that their mommy and daddy aren’t going to love them any less, even though their mommy is going around having kids with other men who aren’t their daddy. And the only way to let them know that it’s business as usual is to bring them to Dundrum Town Centre to buy them shit.

  Honor is checking herself out in the full-length mirror.

  ‘I love it,’ she goes – she’s talking about a Gucci tulle dress with shooting stors, which she originally had on her Santa list but her old dear said it was too expensive.

  ‘I love how it makes me look thinner,’ she goes. ‘How much is it?’

  And I’m there, ‘Well, it was fourteen hundred snots.’

  ‘What do you mean it was?’

  ‘As in, you know, it’s been reduced – to nine hundred snots?’

  ‘I don’t want it if it’s reduced.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Does this look like the face of someone who’s joking?’

  It doesn’t. But then it never does.

  I’m there, ‘But it’s nine hundred snots, Honor – as opposed to, like, fourteen hundred?’

  She goes, ‘I want you to pay full price for it.’

  ‘But why would I do that? It’s on sale.’

  ‘Because you said you were bringing us out today to show us that you still love us even though there’s another baby coming into the house. And I don’t think paying the sale price for my clothes is a good way of showing me that you love me.’

  ‘But who’s going to know that I paid the sale price for it?’

  ‘I’ll know.’

  Daughters are complicated things.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I go. ‘What if I pay the sale price for it, then give you the difference – however much that is – in cash?’

  She’s like, ‘No, I want you to pay full price for it.’

  About twenty seconds later one of the shop girls sticks her head into the dressing room and goes, ‘Excuse me, are those your three boys pushing over all of the mannequins in the shop?’

  ‘It definitely sounds like them,’ I go. ‘But, in better news, we’ve decided to take the dress.’

  The woman looks at Honor and smiles. She’s like, ‘It really suits her!’

  I’m there, ‘Bit of a weird one this, but we were wondering would it be possible for you to chorge us full whack for it?’

  She’s there, ‘Well, it’s actually reduced at the moment.’

  Honor goes, ‘You’re not listening. What my dad is trying to say is that he doesn’t want it if it’s reduced. He wants to pay the original, pre-sale price for it.’

  The woman looks at me like I’m a donkey trying to explain Brexit. ‘But why would you want to do that?’ she goes.

  And I’m there, ‘You don’t have children, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s all ahead of you. Can you just tell me is it possible to chorge me what it would have cost if it wasn’t in the sale?’

  ‘I’ll have to check with my manager first.’

  She focks off to do that while Honor goes back into the cubicle to change out of the dress. And it’s at that exact point that my phone ends up ringing? I can see from the screen that it’s Kennet, the stuttering fock, who I would have been actually related to this morning if Ronan hadn’t seen sense and bailed during the wedding rehearsal.

  I answer by going, ‘Why the fock are you ringing me? To reminisce about old times?’ because – honestly? – I don’t see any reason for us to be in touch now that my son is no longer engaged to his daughter.

  ‘I think you know why Ine r … r … r … r … r … r … rigging,’ he goes. ‘Your sudden leabon my thaughter at the altodder.’

  I’m there, ‘I’d hordly say he left her at the altar. It was twenty-four hours before the wedding.’

  ‘Th … th … th … that’s irregeerdless. He’s arthur breaking her b … b … b … b … bleaten heert, so he is. And Ine wanthon to know what you’re p … p … p … proposing to do abourrut?’

  ‘In terms of?’

  ‘In teerms of c … c … c … c … c … c … compedden sayshidden?’

  I actually laugh. I’m like, ‘Compensation? Would you ever ask my orse?’

  This is some day for being shaken down, it has to be said. First, Honor. Now, this clown.

  ‘You listodden to me,’ he goes. ‘Sh … Sh … Sh … Shadden’s veddy upset, so she is. Her m … m … m … mutter’s throying to explain to her that a b … b … b … broken heert is no diffordent to a b … b … b … broken ankle or a s … s … s … sower neck – you’re entitled to a few b … b … b … b … bob for it.’

  I’m there, ‘What a great mother D … D … D … D … D … D … Dordeen is!’

  ‘S … S … S … S … Some wooden should pay – for what he’s d … d … d … dudden to us as a f … f … f … f … famidy.’

  ‘What’s he done to your f … f … f … f … famidy? All he’s done to you is denied you a free focking piss-up.’

  Kennet laughs then. He goes, ‘Oh, we had the piss-up – doatunt you w … w … w … woody about that. The whole bleaten lorruf us.’

  For fock’s sake! Ronan didn’t cancel the reception? Three hundred people for dinner in Clontorf Castle – and a free bor. I don’t even want to think about what that’s going to cost me slash my old man.

  Kennet goes, ‘We joost thought, Myra swell hab the p … p … p … p … peerty in addyhow. Shurden it’s paid foe-er. W … w … w … waste not, want not – wha’? We deserb it arthur what that bleaten pox bottle did to eer Sh … Shadden. Although, I w … w … w … w … w … wouldn’t luvven to be you, Rosser, when you get the b … b … b … b … b … biddle for the bar.’

  I’ll give him biddle for the focking bor.

  I’m there, ‘It’ll be the last thing you ever get out of me.’

  But he goes, ‘S … S … S … S … Sebenty grand.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Ine arthur discuston it wit Dordeen and we both feel that s … s … s … s … sebenty grand would j … j … joost about cubber the cost of the emotioniddle dabbage that your sudden is arthur doing to eer Sh … Sh … Sh … Sh … Shadden.’

  ‘And why do you think I should pay?’

  ‘Bec
ause Ronan dudn’t hab addy muddy. And needer does he’s mutter. And it was you what encoudaged him to be r … r … r … r … r … r … royden quare woodens out in that UC bleaten D– … D– … D– … D.’

  ‘Dude, you’re getting the sum total of fock-all out of me – and that’s the rounded-up figure.’

  ‘Ine wardon you, Rosser – you d … d … d … d … doatunt want to take me odden.’

  ‘Dude, it’s over. Breaking it off with Shadden and putting distance between himself and your family is the best decision Ronan ever made. Focking scum. Focking scumbags. Focking scummers.’

  ‘You’re a very s … s … s … s … siddy madden, Rosser. You’re godda regret that.’

  ‘I hordly think I will. As a matter of fact, there’s no reason for me and you to ever have a conversation again.’

  He goes, ‘Doatunt hag up on me! Doatunt you deer hag –’

  But I do hang up on him? Because the shop girl is suddenly coming back. She says that, yes, her manager said they are prepared to accept the full, pre-sale price for the dress.

  Which is focking big of them.

  Honor steps out of the dressing room and hands the dress to the woman, who removes the security tag from it, rings it up, then goes, ‘That’ll be one thousand, four hundred euros.’

  I hand over my plastic.

  ‘Thanks,’ Honor goes. And it’s actually a bit of a moment because it’s not often that Honor uses that word. ‘I still want that five hundred euros in cash that you mentioned as well.’

  Seriously, who needs the Tuites for in-laws when you’ve got an eleven-year-old daughter bleeding you like a focking ATM on Christmas Eve?

  Honor picks up her dress, then we go looking for Brian, Johnny and Leo. They’re standing at the bottom of the escalator, kicking the ankles of a security gord, who is radioing for back-up.

  ‘I’ll take it from here,’ I go.

  The dude’s like, ‘Are these your children?’

  I’m there, ‘Trust me, I wouldn’t be offering to take them off your hands if they weren’t.’

  He’s like, ‘They’ve pushed over all the dummies in the shop.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ I go, ‘if you’re still standing.’

  Honor’s there, ‘Good one, Dad!’ because she loves it when I’m being a dick to strangers.

  ‘I know who these boys are,’ the dude tries to go. ‘They’ve been banned from Hamleys.’

  What he obviously doesn’t know is that there’s also a photograph of them in the Build-A-Bear Workshop, warning the staff not to let them through the door of the place. Same with the Ort & Hobby shop.

  He goes, ‘I don’t want you to bring them into this shop again.’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, whatever,’ then I grab Brian and Johnny by the hand, while Honor takes Leo, and we step onto the up escalator.

  Honor is so good with the boys that it would actually put a smile on your face. She turns around to Leo and goes, ‘Daddy bought me an amazing dress to make up for the fact that Mommy is a slut.’

  I’m there, ‘She’s not a slut, Honor. She just had a baby that turned out to be someone else’s other than her husband’s. Although if that doesn’t make her a slut, then I don’t know what does.’

  ‘Slut!’ Leo shouts as we leave Horvey Nichs. ‘Focking, focking slut!’

  And it’s at that point that I spot my old dear walking across the concourse towards us. Jesus Christ, she looks rough – try to imagine a fat Ronnie Wood in drag.

  When she sees us, she tries to smile. But she’s had so much work done to her face that she no longer has any command over her features and moving anything south of her hairline and north of her several chins would require major surgery.

  ‘Oh, look,’ she goes through frozen lips, ‘it’s you! Look at you … all!’

  She seriously can’t remember the names of any of her grandchildren.

  ‘Hi, Fionnuala!’ Honor goes – because the old dear has forbidden her from calling her Gran.

  ‘Hello, you!’ the old dear goes. ‘And the other ones, look! One, two, three of them.’

  I literally haven’t set eyes on the woman since a few days before Christmas, when she was choking to death on a Kalamata olive and – yeah, no – I just stood by and watched, deciding that the world would be a better place without her in it. I want to make sure there’s no awkwardness between us as a result.

  I’m there, ‘Honor, would you take the boys down to Gino’s and get them whatever ice creams they want?’

  I hand Honor a fifty and off she focks with the three boys running after her shouting, ‘Focking ice cream! You focking motherfockers!’

  I’m there, ‘So how was your Christmas in the end?’ just making small talk. ‘Any plans to head back to Russia?’

  She’s been doing a lot of lectures over there to raise money for her charitable foundation, a not-for-profit organization that her and the old man set up with the mission of – get this – strengthening the capacity of people to meet the challenges of global interdependence.

  A money-laundering operation, in other words.

  ‘I have no plans to go back,’ she goes. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be doing much travelling this year.’

  ‘Just to let you know,’ I go, ‘Sorcha had her baby. A little boy. And it turns out that Fionn is the father – just in case you’re wondering.’

  She wasn’t wondering. She just shrugs. It’s like I’ve told her how many alcohol units it’s safe to drink in a week. It’s of no focking relevance to the woman.

  ‘Well,’ I go, ‘I thought I’d let you know anyway. Mother and baby doing fine – except, obviously, the kid is going to have to grow up knowing that his father is that goggle-eyed freak.’

  She’s there, ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Ross.’

  ‘Hey, I’m just making pleasant chit-chat.’

  ‘You’re trying to find out how I feel about what happened before Christmas.’

  ‘Before Christmas? Refresh my memory again?’

  ‘I was lying on the floor of the kitchen, choking to death. And you just stood there, perfectly prepared to watch me die.’

  ‘Oh, that!’

  ‘Yes, Ross – that.’

  ‘I was wondering were you going to bring that up.’

  ‘If your father hadn’t walked into the room when he did, I wouldn’t be alive today.’

  ‘Yeah, no, it’d be typical for you to hold a grudge.’

  ‘You actually smiled, Ross, while I was clutching my throat and gasping for breath. You looked me straight in the eye and you smiled at me.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s so you not to be able to let that go. Come on, it’s New Year’s Eve. What do you say to you and me storting 2017 with a clean slate?’

  She tries to smile. It’s horrible. Her mouth looks like a plastic bucket filled with chopped liver with lipstick around the rim.

  ‘Oh, there’ll be no clean slate!’ she goes – and she says it in a way that would have to be described as chilling?

  I’m there, ‘So what are you planning? You’re obviously planning something for me.’

  She goes, ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’

  I’m there, ‘Wait and see? Is that a threat?’

  ‘Yes, it is a threat – and not an idle one.’

  ‘So you’re threatening me – your only son?’

  She just smiles at me and goes, ‘You know, that might not always be the case, Ross.’

  ‘So you’re going to kill me? Or have me killed – is that it?’

  But she just repeats what she originally said. She’s like, ‘Wait and see!’ and she smiles at me again.

  And I end up just gulping, because I know the woman is capable of literally anything.

  She goes, ‘Happy New Year, Ross,’ then off she focks, the smell of Tanqueray Export Strength and Clarins Eau Dynamisante trailing after her like a Škoda Fabia with a focked exhaust.

  1.

  The Anti-Trump Fashion Item of the Season
!

  ‘What about Gruffydd?’ Sorcha’s old man goes.

  I end up just laughing out loud.

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Gruffydd? Is that even a name?’

  And he’s there, ‘Of course it’s a name! It could be a nod to your Welsh heritage!’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘I didn’t know I was Welsh.’

  I didn’t know she was Welsh either. I could probably get an annulment – that’s if I wanted to go down that route.

  It’s, like, New Year’s Day, by the way. Sorcha has finally arrived home from the hospital with this famous – yeah, no – baby of hers? Her old dear has stuck balloons and bunting with the words ‘Welcome Home, Sorcha and Baby!’ all over the kitchen.

  We’re all sitting around the table. We’re talking me, Sorcha, her old pair, Fionn and Honor.

  ‘Your great-, great-, great-, great-grandfather came from Anglesey,’ Sorcha’s old man goes. ‘And the name Gruffydd was passed down in our family from generation to generation.’

  ‘Oh, like big noses?’ Honor goes.

  I laugh. No actual choice in the matter. Sorcha’s old man has a ginormous hooter that looks like it’s taken a few smacks from a wok.

  I’m like, ‘Great line, Honor! Great line!’

  Sorcha’s old dear tops up her own champagne flute and – definitely a bit hammered – goes, ‘Does she have to be here?’

  I’m about to remind her that Honor actually lives here – unlike her and her husband, who supposedly live in a Shomera in our gorden yet seem to spend all their time in my kitchen, eating my food and drinking my booze.

  Sorcha goes, ‘Of course she should be here, Mom! This is her little brother!’

  Fionn – the proud dad – is holding the baby and making, I don’t know, coochie-focking-coo noises at it.

  Under her breath, Honor goes, ‘He’s not my little brother.’

  Sorcha either doesn’t hear it or chooses to ignore it because she goes, ‘When it comes to names, I love nouns that are, like, suggestive of virtue? For instance, Sage, Truth and Valour.’

  Sorcha’s old dear looks at Honor and I can tell she’s thinking, Yeah, that worked out so well for her, didn’t it?