Temple Bor, a drunk bride-to-be and me - yeah, roysh, I know what you're thinking, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY

MUCH HAS been said over the years about my nocturnal activities in the old hog pens of Temple Bor. Luke Fitzgerald once famously said of me that I'd been through more hens than Manor Farm. Which istrue. See, once I cop the old paraphernalia - devil horns, an L-plate, a balloon in the shape of a donger - I'm generally in there like swimwear. There are literally hundreds of married women in this town - and the major cities of northern England - who can say that Ross O'Carroll-Kelly was their final fling, which is not a bad consolation for anyone about to embark on long-term marriage.

I was actually thinking about some of the fleapits I've tiptoed out of at dawn down through the years, as I was wandering through the old cultural quarter last Saturday night. I'd just caught the - believe it or not - busback from Ronan's house, where I'd spent the afternoon watching - again, believe it or not - soccer. That's the thing about fatherhood. You'd do, like, anything for your kids.

I should add this doesn't mean I approve of public transport all of a sudden. It's like, who does? The reason I was on the famous 13 - unlucky for everyone - is that the old Beamer 5 Serious has storted to draw what would have to be described as, like, resentfullooks from people out that way? It's, again, the recession, but they stare at me like I'm SeáFitzPatrick standing in the dole line in Bray with a focking Cohiba burning in the middle of my face. Er, notgood?

Anyway, where all this is going is that I hopped off the bus on O'Connell Street and cut through Merchants Orch, the plan being to take the short cut back to the Stephen's Green Shopping Centre, where the old beast was porked. So there I was - like I said, roysh, reminiscing - when my eyes were suddenly drawn to a gaggle of girls standing outside Londis, smack bang in the middle of which was a half-cut bride-to-be, wearing a veil and what could be most accurately described as a dressless evening strap.

I should add, at this point, that the girl had her back to me. But - I'll also say in my defence - she hada cracking little tail on her and, drunk or sober, whatever the hour, I'm alwayson the case.

"Don't do it," I shouted in her general postcode. "Biggest mistake of your life. And I should know."

It was only then that she turned around and I realised - gave me quite a shock, has to be said - that it was Sorcha's younger sister.

Those of you who've followed, like, the twists and turns of the white-water rapid ride that has been my love life will know that there's history between me and - I don't know - Orkney or Ashanti or whatever she calls herself. It happened, like, once or twice, and though it meant pretty much nothing to me beyond the actual moment, it clearly meant a hell of a lot to her, since the dude she's marrying is an absolute ringer for me.

Anyway, when she saw me, it was the usual hysterics you get from girls this side of things - a lot of hugging, a lot of squealing, a lot of oh-my-Godding - then she introduced me to the rest of her friends as her soon-to-be-ex brother-in-law. The other girls were there giving it, "Oh my God, he's sogood-looking," and of course you can picture me - can't you? - acting all shy and pretty much bashful.

"Why don't you come for a drink with us?" shewent. "Oh my God, you can be our hag!" and, after a second's thought, I was there, "Er, yeah - why actual not?"

Just as I was saying it, roysh, who should walk out of Londis -  I didn't even know she was back on the Morlboro Lights? - but Sorcha herself. When she copped her sister with her orms around my shoulders, she let loose a string of words that I'm sure had Sr Dominic of the Society of the Sacred Hort spinning like a rotisserie chicken in the ground.

The sister was there, "Sorcha has to go home," then, turning around to her, went, "Ross is coming for a drink with us!" in that really bitchy way that girls have of, like, talkingto each other?

"Well," Sorcha went, looking at me like I was a wolf about to take her lamb, "maybe I'll stay out for a bit longer. I can ask the babysitter to stay for a couple more hours."

I was like, "Sorcha, it's cool. You can trust me," trying to remind her that we were married for the best part of two and a half years. "Especially because I'm not going to be drinking."

This continued back and forth for the next 10 minutes until Sorcha was finally persuaded to go home. Before she got into her taxi she turned to her sister and went, "Do you want to borrow my panic alorm?" I was like, "Panic alorm? Jesus, Sorcha, I'm your still technically husband!" although that obviously cut very little ice with the girl.

Now, I know where you thinkthis story is headed? But you'd be wrong. We hit Club M and, for once, I acted like the total gentleman. I got off with three or four of her mates but I respected the fact that she - maybe it's Astrid - was getting married and that was that.

I even resisted the temptation to throw the lips on her when she practically pinned me against the bor and told me she was in love with me, roysh, and always was, and the only reason she was marrying Pete was because he looked like me, even though he's originally Clongowes.

I was there, "Come on," taking the cosmo out of her hand, "you've been tanning the old tort fuel, in fairness to you," and she dried her eyes and for a minute seemed to accept what I was saying that I'd been a pretty lousy husband to her sister and I was determined - possibly a sign of maturity - to now be a better ex.

She nodded, then went, "Will you come to the wedding?"

I was there, "I, er, don't think that's a good idea, do you? I mean, poor Pete. He went to a shit school, but even so . . ."

Then, without batting an eyelid, she went, "If you don't come, Ross, I'm going to tell Sorcha that you made a move on me tonight. And which of us do you think she'd believe?"

It's like, women - you could stay awake all night and you still wouldn't be up early enough for them.