‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha goes. ‘Did you lock Brian in the attic?’

So – yeah, no – I’m in the cor with the boys, driving home from The Bridge 1859 after watching The Ster make shit of Clermont Auvergne, when the usual rugby singsong storts up.

Totally out of nowhere, we’re all suddenly giving it:

Oh, dear, what can the matter be?

Seven old ladies got trapped in a lavatory.

They were there from Sunday to Saturday,

Nobody knew they were there.

It’s one of the cleaner rugby songs they know, in fairness to it, unlike On the Good Ship Venus, or Bollocky Bill – The Wandering Swordsman of Ballyglass.

Leo goes:

The next to go in was old Mrs Pender,

She sat on the cistern to fix her suspender,

It snapped and injured her feminine gender,

Nobody knew she was there.

We do the chorus again and that’s when I look in the rear-view mirror and notice that Brian, who’s supposedly the singer in the family, isn’t even moving his lips.

I’m there, “Your turn, Brian. The next to go in was Miss Carolina–”

But he refuses to take the bait. Instead – I shit you not – he goes, “My music teacher told me to rest my larynx for the weekend.”

I end up stopping the cor on the Stillorgan dualler without even putting my hazards on and some dude in a Range Rover ends up nearly running into the back of me. I’m like, “Excuse me? Say that again.”

He goes, “We have a big rehearsal on Tuesday. For Mamma Mia! He told me that I should rest my voice.”

Leo goes:

The next to go in was Miss Carolina,

She was on tablets to fix her angina,

Three gallons of water spilled out her –

I’m like, “No, Leo, that’s enough. Your brother has ruined the fun for everyone.”

[ Sorcha’s old dear singing sounds like a fox with its head trapped in a gateOpens in new window ]

“Mr Brady also said that I shouldn’t sing any song until he’s approved it first,” Brian tries to go then, making it even worse for himself, “just to make sure that it’s within my vocal range.”

At this point, there’s, like, a queue of 40 cors behind us, their drivers leaning on their horns. Of course they’d be a lot more sympathetic if they had any idea what I was having to deal with here.

I’m there, “So, what, Fifteen Virgins from O’er the Hills Came or Lady Falconer Held a Big Ball – you need to get permission from your music teacher to sing any of the songs that have been port and porcel of Castlerock College tradition for, like, hundreds of years.”

He goes – this is, like word for word – “He says my voice is an instrument.”

I’m there, “He’s a focking instrument. And I’ll be making that point to him at the next parent-teacher meeting.”

I stort the cor again and we drive the rest of the way home in mostly silence, except for the sound of Brian listing the other things that Mr Brady told him to do – or not do – to protect his vocal cords.

He goes, “He told me I should have four spoonfuls of manuka honey every day. Dad, can we get, like, manuka honey – as in, like, the really expensive one?”

And I’m there, “Why not? I’m focking made of money.”

I am actually made of money, but in this case I’m being sorcastic.

He goes, “Another thing I have to avoid is dust.”

I’m like, “Dust?” and this is as I’m putting the key in the front door.

He’s there, “Yeah, no, Mr Brady said that dust could totally destroy my voice, especially at this delicate stage of its development.”

Quick as a flash, I go, “Brian, can you do me a favour? Can you pop up to the attic for me?”

He’s like, “The attic?”

I’m there, “Yeah, no,” as he follows me up the stairs, “I’ve just remembered that Sorcha has some tapes up there of her old dear singing her so-called hymns. Do you remember Sorcha said she thought you might have got your – her word – gift from your grandmother?”

He goes, “But is it not dusty up there?”

And I’m like, “They’re in a blue box,” as I unfold the ladder for him. “You’ll be up and down in 10 seconds flat. As a matter of fact, I’ll time you.”

Never mind my nervous breakdown. Come on – sing!

—  Ross

So – yeah, no – poor, gullible Brian clambers up the rungs. The second he gets to the top, I fold up the ladder and close the attic, locking him in there.

He’s going, “Dad! Dad! I’m not supposed to breathe in dust, remember?” the total sap.

I’m like, “I’m doing this for your rugby career, Brian. You can thank me when you win your first cap for Ireland.”

Johnny turns around to Leo and goes, “I think Dad is having a nervous breakdown.”

I’m there, “Never mind my nervous breakdown. Come on – sing!” and I try to lead them in a chorus of:

Lady Falconer held a big ball,

The vicar, the bishop,

She invited them all –.

And that’s when Sorcha suddenly shouts up the stairs. She’s like, “Oh my God! What the hell is that noise?”

I’m there, “I thought you of all people would recognise the lyrics. You went to enough Castlerock matches over the years,” and I give Leo and Johnny a big wink.

She goes, “I’m talking about the banging,” and she storts making her way up the stairs. “Where’s Brian?”

I’m there, “No idea. Must have left him in the pub. Look, I’m sure he’ll find his own way home eventually.”

She goes, “The banging is coming from the – Oh my God, did you lock him in the attic?”

I’m there, “What kind of a question is that?”

Leo – the little focking rat – goes, “He did. He wants him to breathe in dust so that he can’t sing in the school musical any more.”

Sorcha gives me a look of total and utter disgust – very similar to the one she gave me when I spilled half a bottle of Heineken into the open casket at her grandmother’s removal.

She goes, “Ross, let him out.”

But I’m like, “You let him out. I’m washing my hands of the kid.”

Then I tip downstairs, singing:

The next to go in was poor Mrs Mason,

She was a martyr to her constipation,

The seat was wet so she went in the basin,

Nobody knew she was there.