Tina dating McGahy, Ro watching actual soccer – where did it all go wrong? asks ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY

I DON'T KNOW if I mentioned to you before that Tina, the so-called mother of my 13-year-old son, has storted – get this – datingMr McGahy, the principal of Castlerock, who could be described, I suppose, as a kind of Dumbledore who hates rugby.

They’ve been going to see a lot of plays together, which made me laugh when I heard it. Having grown up where she did, the closest Tina ever came to a theatre was sitting in hospital corridors while the various schnacks that she’s called boyfriends down through the years had their wounds stitched.

To hear me throwing out – I have to admit – cracking one-liners like that, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the Rossmeister General was easy-breezy with the old situ. But it's been bothering me, as in reallybothering me? It's not that I'm interested in getting back in there. Being honest, if me and Tina were the last two people on earth, I'd breed outside my species.

No, it was just a feeling that I couldn’t quite put my finger on – until Wednesday morning, when I had a conversation with my soon-to-be-ex Bag for Life, roysh, which storted out pleasantly enough, but, as usual, turned very quickly sour.

We were sitting in Bucky’s in Ballsbridge and she had her iPhone out, showing me a picture of her crossing the finish line in the women’s mini-marathon last weekend. She was wearing, I couldn’t fail to notice, rainproof trousers, a windcheater and a pair of MBTs and I just happened to mention – as you do – that I’d probably never have another sexual thought about her for as long as I lived.

That’s when her eyes went suddenly narrow – those of you with experience of Mounties will recognise this – and her face took on the look of a girl who knows she’s put too much wasabi on her Makazushi but is too proud to spit it out.

“How’s Tina getting on with Ronan’s headmaster?” she went.

Of course, at that stage, I hadn't copped that she was saying it out of, like, spite. She's handling this divorce better than me. In my innocence, I was like, "Don't ask me. I've given up trying to understand the ways of the poor. I mean, that's the programme TV3 should be making, isn't it? The Truth About Northsiders. They're predicting that we're all going to know at least one by the time this recession's over."

She didn't break stride, just had a quick suck on her Java chip frap, then went, "Because I was actually thinking, Ross, if things go really well, he couldend up being Ronan's stepdad?"

Of course that went down like the pension levy, which was the reason she said it. All day Friday, roysh, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. This is the man, remember, who pulled Castlerock College out of the Leinster Schools Senior Cup, claiming – hilariously – that “the presentation of adolescent rugby players as God-like figures among their peer group has fostered a culture of ‘yobbery’ within this school body”. If I was still playing the game, I’d key his focking cor for that comment.

Anyway, the thought of him becoming stepfather to my 13-year-old, already socially disadvantaged son was suddenly driving me chicken oriental, to the point that, at some point on Friday night, I decided that enough was basically enough: I was hitting Tina’s gaff and sorting this once and for all. The whole way to Finglas, I was thinking up all these – to be honest – madcap schemes to try to break her and McGahy up, until I began to feel like I was in a straight-to-DVD movie, co-starring alongside Nicole Richie or a young Casey Affleck.

I pulled up outside. Speaking of cors, hisNissan Storlet was porked in the driveway, like it wasn't hurting anyone.

I rang the doorbell, which of course didn't work. Tina took the batteries out of it – andthe smoke alorm, by the way – to put in the Pirate Pete, The Repeat Parrotthat Ronan got her on Henry Street for Christmas. I'm definitely going to suggest that programme to TV3.

I knocked two or three times on the wire glass window beside the door and 10 seconds later he opened it – as in McGahy himself? You’ve no idea of the anger I suddenly felt, although I managed to bite my lip.

I flicked my thumb in the direction of his cor and went, “Does that bucket of rust still go?” Which he just ignored. He went, “Ross, to what do we owe this pleasure?” which is such a teachery thing to say.

I laughed in his face – just like old times. It always drove him mad that he could never discipline me, knowing full well that I’d just go to see Father Fehily and play the S cord. It’s the reason he hates rugby to this day.

"I see you've got your Reet Petites under the table," I went. "God, she mustbe desperate. I mean, what's the even age difference between you? Must be, like, 20 years."

He didn't answer. Wouldn't give me the pleasure, see. He just went, "Do you wish to come in?" I just, like, bundled past him. "Yeah, as if I needyour permission to see my son." Ronan obviously heard me, roysh, out in the hall, because from the living-room, a voice went, "Ah, Rosser, you steamer – 'mon in, we're watching the Wurdled Cup." And, not surprisingly, I was like, "The World Cup? It's not on till next year, Ro."

And that was when I stuck my head around the livingroom door and saw – every South Dublin parent’s nightmare – my son watching a soccer match. Sitting beside his mother as well, who seemed to see absolutely nothing wrong with it.

I stood there, roysh, my mouth flapping open like a landed cod. “Fooken Ferrants,” Ronan went. “Doorty poxes.” McGahy sat down on the sofa beside them, a real happy families vibe about the three of them. I just shook my head and told him he hadn’t heard the last of this.

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