This chick is using my best lines – in fact, she could be actual me?

I’M SURE it’ll come as no surprise to hear that your correspondent has already had his sweaty way with one of the Hunky Dorys ad girls. Or was it the other way round?

We certainly spent the night together. I suppose that was – again, if it's a word? – inevitablefrom the moment I rear-ended a black Lincoln Navigator while ogling her photo on the gable wall of the Spar in Donnybrook. She was, like, themost beautiful woman I've ever seen, with lips like a sink plunger and a chest like two fat girl guides fighting in a one-man tent.

Even as I was handing over my insurance details to the other driver, I found myself constantly staring up at her, then adding her to my To Do list, between the names of Andrea Roche and Sinead Desmond.

I suppose that might even mean that what happened next was, like, fate? Because Sunday night, roysh, I was in, like, Krystle with Fionn and JP, knocking back a few sundowners, drowning our sorrows, having just got off the flight home from Toulouse. JP was just saying how much we basically missed Rocky Elsom today when all of a sudden I spotted her, at a high table near the bor, standing with her friends, sipping a Cosmopolitan, a ringer for Maria Kirilenko – the girl who's added another 400 snots to my insurance premium next year.

“Hey,” Fionn went, “is that . . .” I was like, “Yes, it is, my friend,” hordly able to take my eyes off her.

“Well,” JP was like, “I’m with the IRFU. I think those ads are an actual disgrace. They give the impression that all – I suppose – lady rugby players look like that. Which they don’t. Which they so don’t.”

I was there, "Well, whatever the rights and wrongs of it, I'm going to go over and introduce myself," and the two goys laughed, roysh – they actually laughed?

Fionn was there, "Ross, I think she might be out of even yourleague?" and I thought, er, hordly – with the girls I'vehad in the woodshed over the years? That's, like, an insult.

So I knocked back a mouthful of the old Milk of Amnesia, flexed the old pectorals and had a quick rummage through my grab bag of chat-up lines.

Imagine my shock, roysh, when I suddenly noticed her making herway over to me. She'd obviously copped me getting an eyeful of her, roysh, because she gave me the guns and went, "Hey, keep drinking it in, baby – it's full of goodness," which is usually one of my famous lines? You can imagine how suddenly thrown I was, my mouth slung open like a trout taking a fly and my hort pounding like Ayia Napa in Leaving Cert holiday week.

I was like, “Er . . . Errr . . .”

“Well, you’re certainly cute,” she went. “What’s your name?” and I was there “Er, it’s, like, Ross and stuff?” feeling my face suddenly redden.

She went, “Ross and stuff? Nice to meet you, Ross and stuff. I’m, like, Daniella?” and I was soon reduced to a gibbering wreck as she hit me with line after winning line.

See, I'm usually the one who makes all the running in these situations, but it was a good 15 minutes before I got it together enough to try to regain the, I suppose, initiative? I nodded in the direction of the bor, asked her did she fancy another Knickerdropper Glory, but she went, "I've an even better idea – why don't you and me get the hell out of here?"

What answer is there to a question like that, other than, “I’ll go grab my Henri Lloyd.”

On the way out the door, roysh, I could have sworn I saw her, out of the corner of my eye, turn to her friends, mouth the word, "Score!" and make a gesture with her right orm, which – pretty much likethe ad campaign, of which she is the undoubted stor – could be considered obscene if not pretty much sexist.

I let it go, roysh, because five minutes later, we were in a taxi on the way back to my gaff, with Daniella giving me compliments the whole way there, about how really, really good-looking I was and how I had a set of abs on me like accordion keys. And what could I do except rub my hand up and down them and tell her that I aerobicise.

Anyway, I’m sure I don’t need to paint you a picture of what happened next – the old casual Ant and Decs and blah blah blah. But I have to say, roysh, it was the best casual Ant and Decs I’ve ever had – and you know me, I’ve been around a few corners.

Anyway, afterwards, I was just drifting off into what would have to be described as a blissful sleep, when all of a sudden I sensed Daniella moving around the room. It was only when my eyes adjusted to the dorkness that I realised she was, like, throwing on her clothes. Of course I was thrown into, like, sudden shock.

“Are you . . . sneaking out on me?” I went.

She didn’t even try to deny it. She was like, “Look, no offence, but I’ve never been into post-match chat,” which – again – is a thing I usually say?

I was like, “Oh – er, fair enough,” and then I ended up saying something that was, like, totally out of character for me. “Can I see you again?”

She went, “Er, yeah, I’ll, er, give you a ring.” I was like, “Do you promise?” my voice sounding sad and basically needy.

“Yeah, I will.”

Of course, she didn’t. The Bank Holiday, Tuesday, Wednesday – nothing. And all that time, I couldn’t get her out of my honestly mind. I kept checking the volume on my phone, wondering was the ringer broken, actually making excuses for her.

Then Thursday, roysh, I was in the M1, having a few beers to stort the weekend, when I ended up getting stupidly drunk and telling Fionn the entire story. I was there, “There’s obviously a good reason why she hasn’t rung?” face as long as the road to Mayo.

“There is,” Fionn went, after considering all that I’d told him. “It sounds to me like you’ve met the female Ross O’Carroll-Kelly.”

I just shook my head, then said it had finally happened – I was in actual love.

rossocarrollkelly.ie