So, what's wrong with a little cheating? It hordly ever did me any horm, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY

'WHY IS that girl staring over here?" Sorcha wants to know. I'm there, "Who?" with a big innocent face on me – a skill I've, like, perfected over the years. "That new relief teacher who's looking after Honor's class – she keeps, like, staringover at you? And I'm not saying that in, like, a jealous way."

“Yeah, no, I think I recognise her now,” I go, deciding to come clean. “Her name’s, like, Dearbhail or Doireann or one of those . . .” Sorcha just shakes her head. “Our daughter’s Montessori teacher? Oh my God, Ross, you’re like an infection,” which I instantly take as a compliment, thinking she meant addiction.

This is us, by the way, standing in Merrion Square. The big day has finally arrived, as in the Little Roedean’s sports day? Dearbhail – it’s definitely Dearbhail now that I think about it – announces the names of the 10 runners and there’s a lot of, I don’t know, oohing and aahing from all the other parents.

The storting line looks like a shot from one of those Anne Geddes calendars that Sorcha loves – kids of all shapes and colours, we’re talking Indian, we’re talking Chinese, we’re talking – and this is racist but I still have to say the word – black. See, a lot of, like, foreign embassy staff have their kids in Little Roedean’s. Diversity is one of the main reasons Sorcha wanted Honor to go there.

Dearbhail's having terrible trouble getting them all under storter's orders, though. Most of them, I can't help but notice as a former top athlete myself, aren't even focusingon the race? Honor, I'm proud to say, is stood in lane three with her game face on, staring straight ahead at the 50 yords between her and the finish line. Sorcha storts calling her name, roysh, and waving to her and I have to tell her not to break her focus, which Sorcha doesn't appreciate.

"Look, take it from someone who played sport at the highest level," I try to go, "a major port of it is about concentration and application – whatever that second one is." She, I don't know, scowls at me? "Filling her head this morning with all that motivational rubbish," she goes. "Fall seven times, stand up eight . . ."

“Hey, that’s one of Father Fehily’s old lines.”

"She's four years old, Ross!" I couldmention how old Tiger Woods was when he hit his first hundred-yord drive, except I don't.

“On your marks . . .” Dearbhail suddenly goes. They’re finally ready. Sorcha’s there, “Good luck, Honor!” but the kid, I’m happy to say, doesn’t even flinch. “Set . . .”

“Remember,” I shout, “winning isn’t the important thing, Honor – it’s the only thing!” which, as it’s supposedly a non-competitive race, doesn’t go down too well with the other parents.

"Go!" Honor's off like a bullet out of a gun. In fact, it's immediately obvious that there's only, like, two kids in the race who can live with her sudden turn of pace from a standing stort – a little Chinese girl called Sunny, then a little Indian boy called Faarooq – and they're stilla good metre behind her.

Sorcha's there giving it, "Run, Honor! Run! Run! Run!" suddenly forgetting the whole what matters most is taking parthorseshit she's been filling her head with for the past few weeks. Honor's actuallyflying, roysh, but then suddenly, somewhere around the mid-point in the race, she hits the famous wall that you often hear athletes talking about. This is where something like creatine would actually do a lot of good, though I'd never give something like that to my daughter – not until she's 16 anyway.

But Faarooq comes back at her on her inside and he's suddenly running neck-and-neck with her. Then Sunny – who has this mad way of running, with her hands down by her side – hits herstride and is all of a sudden a good yord ahead of the two of them. Her old pair are there going absolutely ballistic in Chinese, while Faarooq's old dear is giving it what would also haveto be described as loads.

Fifteen yords from the line, Sunny storts to tire and it’s obvious that she doesn’t have the stamina for the full race distance. Honor comes back at her – I was always at my deadliest in the last 10 minutes of a match – but then Faarooq comes back just as strong. Five yords from the line, roysh, the three of them are running pretty much level.

I go, “Win at all costs, Honor! Win at all costs!” Faarooq, I swear to fock, is just about to dip over the line, while Sunny is maybe half a step in front of Honor. That’s when suddenly, without any warning, Honor’s two orms suddenly shoot out. She grabs Sunny by the wrist and Faarooq by the scruff of the neck, then – with what Ryle Nugent would probably describe as “wonderful economy of movement” – she pulls them both backwards, in the process thrusting herself over the finishing line.

I wave my fist at Faarooq's old dear. "Yes!" I go. "In your fockingface!" which isa bit horsh, I'm prepared to admit, but then these are the precious moments as a parent – if you can't enjoy them without rubbing everyone else's nose in it, you'd have to ask yourself what kind of a world are we suddenly living in?

The result – or, to be exact, the mannerof it – doesn't go down well with the other parents, though. It goes without saying that I don't speak any other languages, though it doesn't take much to work out that they're screaming pretty much blue murder and it's mostly directed at me. Sunny's old man certainly knows the word "cheat" because he practically spits it at me, roysh, and I've no choice except to keep going, "That's not what the record book's going to say!" over and over again, right in his face. Sorcha's suddenly scooped Honor up in her orms, blocking her ears, I suppose to protect her from some of the more ugly comments that are now being shouted.

"Rise above it," I make sure to tell Honor, "like Idid back in the day. "

Sorcha just goes, "Ross, I can't believewhat I just watched our daughter do! And is it any wonder, with a father who thinks the way to get ahead in life is to cheat and to lie . . ." Er, two years ago, everyone thought that – what's happening to this supposed country?

Dearbhail arrives over then, writing something on her little clipboard. I go to, like, air-kiss her, but she pulls away.

“Anyway,” I try to go, “I’m the, er, proud father.” She’s there, “Well,” with a definite smirk on her face, “I regret to inform you that your daughter’s been disqualified for cheating.”

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