The old parental instinct makes you do some crazy things – like walking down Westmoreland Street in a Henri Lloyd jacket

I'VE OFTEN wondered – as no doubt you have – how Westmoreland Street ended up being on thisside of the Liffey. Fionn, who got an A1 in geography in the Leaving, told me that it happened in – I don't know – the olden days, when flash floods and changes in the sediment core under Dublin caused the river to alter its course, suddenly stranding Caddles Irish Gifts and the Londis 24 Hour on the wrong side of the city.

Fionn, of course, couldbe ripping the piss, which he often does with me, knowing I'm as stupid as a stick horse. All the same, you'd have to agree, it isthe weirdest thing.

Anyway, where this whole random history lesson is going is this. On Friday afternoon, I happened to be walking alongWestmoreland Street – shaking my head at even the idea of it – when who did I spot, pacing back and forth outside Supermacs, muttering madly to himself, but my only son and heir.

He’d have let me walk straight past him as well – that’s how lost in his own little world he was, calling some imaginary enemy “the scum of the eert” and “a doorty fooken pox” under his breath, like one of those mad dudes who hang around bus stations but never seem to get on any buses.

I was like, "Ro!" and it was only then that he even noticedme?

“What are doing walking around here dressed like that?” he went, still pacing. What he was referring to, I presumed, was my Henri Lloyd Ocean Explorer jacket. “They’ll fooken kill you, Rosser.”

I laughed. He isgood value.

“I was actually up in Dr Quirkey’s,” I went, “looking for you. I remembered it was mid-term – wondered did you want to go and buy illegal fireworks.”

Even the use of the word illegal for once failed to put a smile on his face and it was then that the old parental instinct kicked in and I storted to wonder was he in, like, some kind of trouble? I noticed, roysh, that his nails were bitten raw and his eyes were all over the road like a female taxi driver.

All of a sudden I remembered the seizure of 120 million contraband cigarettes that I saw on the news and it all became instantly clear to me. There was a sudden drought on the streets – and there I was looking at one of the victims.

“Me nerves are shot to bits,” he went. “I’m fooken gutten, Rosser! Gutten!”

Of course the easiest thing in the world for me – or anyfather – to do would be to go into a shop and buy the kid a pack of 20, if only to put him out of his misery. But that's not how Iroll as a parent.

I was just like, “Ro, do you not think it’s maybe time you kicked that habit?” Of course I could have been talking, I don’t know, Albanish, from the way he looked at me.

“I’m serious,” I went. “And I know that possibly makes me a hypocrite buying you a Zippo for your 13th birthday and shit? But I’ve been telling you this since you were, like, eight – those things will cut 20 years off your life, Ro.”

He shrugged like he didn't givea fock? I might as well have been that Gord his old dear used to try to scare him straight, after she caught him drinking her Scrumpy.

“Line of woork I’m going into,” he went, “I’ll be lucky to see tree-oh in anyhow.”

One of the things that earned me my reputation as – to quote the great One F himself – " thegreatest unfulfilled talent that Irish rugby has ever seen" was my ability to suddenly switch the direction of the play. And it's something I've carried forward into, I suppose, life. So I just nodded at what he said, thinking, okay, let him play the hord man if he wants. Seen it all before. Clongowes. Terenure. Blackrock. But then – I suddenly changed the angle of attack.

“Can I just say, it’s not cool either,” I went. “Just as an example, do you think he smokes?”

“Who?”

"Er, your hero?"

“Martin Foley?”

“No, not Martin Foley.”

“I think he does, Rosser. A fella told me he can inhale and make it come out he’s bullet holes – it’s apposed to be he’s peerty piece.”

I was like, "Okay, fair enough, that iscool. But who I was talking about was Jonny Sexton – as in, the rugby player you're supposedto be modelling yourself on?"

He stopped pacing. It was like I’d suddenly reached him. “Do you think he became the player he did,” I went, “with a 20-a-day habit in his Junior Cup year?” He put his head down, probably a bit ashamed of himself. “Thoorty,” he went, under his breath.

I was like, "Thirty, whatever. They're raving about you in the school, Ro. They're saying you're one of themost naturally gifted rugby players that's ever gone to Castlerock, chip off the old block, blah blah blah. They think you might even be ready for the JCT thisyear. And, what, you want to throw it all away sucking that filth into your lungs?"

It did the trick. He suddenly looked genuinely sorry. "Mebby I willtry and give up," he went. "Blaithin says kissing me is like sticking her tongue in a cigarette bin."

I put my hand on his shoulder, just to let him know I’ll be supporting him, every step of the way. “Anytime you get the cravings,” I went, “ring me and I’ll talk you through the Leinster v Leicester match.” He nodded.

"I want you live a long life, Ro. I want you to even play for Ireland one day – make me proud of you like Ivery nearly made myold man proud of me."

Then we crossed back over the river – even though it didn't feel like we neededto? – to buy bangers and rockets and other good, clean, illegal fun.

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