What Leo said will haunt me for the rest of my days: ‘We’ve been asked to join the ensemble’

I was driven to it. That’s all I’m going to say in my defence.

My, my,

At Waterloo Napoleon did surrender.

And it wasn’t just Brian singing it. Yeah, no, the other two idiots had been roped in and were doing backing vocals. I tore up the stairs and burst into their room to find the three of them not only singing but doing actual dance steps.

“The fock is going on?” I went – as any parent would?

“We’re helping Brian rehearse for Mamma Mia!” Johnny went.

Yeah, no, the thing is on in, like, two weeks’ time.

I looked around the room and I noticed that one of them had been up to the attic to get the karaoke machine that Sorcha bought during the first Covid lockdown when she decided it might – her words – bring us together as a family.

I went, “I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t do anything to encourage Brian’s interest in musical theatre?”

Johnny and Leo looked at me like we’d never even had the conversation. And then Leo said something to me that will haunt me for the rest of my days:

“We’ve been asked to join the ensemble.”

I actually pretended not to hear him at first. It was a mixture of shock and not wanting to let them see my anger.

I was like, “Get dressed,” because we were going to see Ireland versus Orgentina at the Aviva. “I’ll see you downstairs,” and not one of them moved.

Johnny looked at his two brothers, then went, “We’d prefer to stay here. To work on the songs.”

I didn’t know how to explain the line of empty seats beside me at the stadium. In fact, I just burst into tears

How I managed to hold my shit together in that moment is a genuine, genuine mystery. I just went downstairs, opened the fuse box and flipped the trip switch, sending the entire house into dorkness, a trick my old man invented when I storted to show an unhealthy interest in – believe it or not – soccer during Italia 90.

I went outside and I sat in the cor, waiting for them to see sense. Fifteen minutes later, the lights came back on – I’d probably used the trick once too often – and I heard the strains of:

Waterloo,

I was defeated, you won the war.

– coming from the house again.

I phoned the gords in Dún Laoghaire, pretending to be one of the neighbours, and made a complaint about the noise, then I drove to the Aviva alone. It would not be an exaggeration to call it the saddest drive of my life.

I arrived at the stadium and of course all anyone wanted to know was where were the triplets. They’d be pretty famous, in fairness to them, for the hilariously foul-mouthed comments they shout at the opposition during matches. I didn’t know how to explain the line of empty seats beside me. In fact, I just burst into tears.

They weren’t the only ones who didn’t show up either. There was no sign of JP in The Bridge 1859 after the final whistle. When I rang him on the way home to find out what the fock, he was like, “Sorry, dude, Isa’s not well,” Isa being his son. “He’s got chickenpox.”

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. One of my famous plans was, I want to say, formulating in my head?

The next morning, being Saturday, I turfed the boys out of bed at, like, nine o’clock in the morning. I was there, “Come on, we’re going to visit your uncle JP.”

They were like, “But we have to practise our songs.”

I went, “You can do that as well. I want you to show Isa how good you are.”

And Leo was there, “Okay, goys – don’t forget your Abba wigs.”

It was way worse than I feared.

All the time, JP was giving me the side-eye, obviously thinking: You bring children into this world and this is how they thank you

So – yeah, no – we drove to JP’s gaff. The dude was surprised to see us, especially after what he’d told me the night before.

But I was like, “Don’t worry about it, Dude, they’ve had chickenpox before,” which was a white lie. “They thought it might cheer Isa up to see some of the song and dance routines they’ve been working on for the school musical.

From the look JP gave me, I could tell that he felt for me in that moment.

Brian plugged in the karaoke machine, then the three of them performed a couple of – I want to call them – numbers from the show. And all the time, JP was giving me the side-eye, obviously thinking, “You bring children into this world and this is how they thank you”.

After two songs, I suggested to the dude that we leave them to it. He was keen to hear my analysis of the match the night before, so we tipped downstairs.

“Do you want me to pull the fuse out,” he went.

But I was like, “No, no, if they’d prefer musical theatre to rugby, then I would have to be a serious dick to try to stand in their way.”

Anyway, we ended up staying for, like, three or four hours, with Brian, Johnny and Leo performing Abba songs in the disease-ridden Petri dish of Isa’s room.

It ended up being the afternoon when we drove back to Vico Road. And Sorcha was – yeah, no – pacing the kitchen, up to focking 90.

She was like, “Where the hell have you been?”

I went, “We just swung into JP’s. The boys wanted to show Isa their moves.”

She was like, “But Chloe said on Instagram that Isa has chickenpox.”

I decided to try to style it out. I was there, “But the boys have already had chickenpox – or am I mistaken?”

She went, “Yes, they have had it.”

And I was there, “What?” because it was genuinely the first I was hearing of it. “Er, I mean, when was that again?”

She was like, “It was when me and you were on one of our breaks.”

I was there, “Right.”

And she went, “The boys have had it, Ross. But you haven’t. You’re going to have to quarantine.”

So here I am, one week later, watching Ireland versus Fiji in the spare room, surrounded by Sorcha’s exercise equipment, my head throbbing, my joints aching, my entire body covered in blisters, barely able to hear the commentary over the sound of:

Wa-Wa-Wa-Wa Waterloo,

Finally facing my Waterloo.