Ronan’s back in “the office”, as he calls it – the slaughterhouse on St Morgaret’s Road, aiming punches and kicks at some kind of animal corcass that’s hanging by a chain from the ceiling, calling it a pox and a doorty sham and telling it that he’s not here to take peert, he’s here to take oaber.
His rematch with Josey Anto in the cor pork of the Tipsy Wagon in Blanchardstown is only six weeks away and he's in serious training for it.
He doesn’t notice me at first. He’s got the Rocky theme tune blasting out and he’s concentrating hord on breaking the dead animal’s ribs.
I’m like, “Alright, Ro?”
I end up having to shout.
He goes, “Ah, Rosser!” and he stops the music. He gives me a man-hug and I end up covered in cow’s blood. Doesn’t matter. These are the sacrifices you make as a parent.
I’m like, “How’s the training going?”
“Thraining’s going moostard,” he goes. “Ine a bettor fighter than I was when I lost to him last toyum. And this toyum it’s personiddle.”
“It looked pretty personal the last time, Ro – especially when he dislocated your kneecap and kicked you unconscious.”
“Well, it’s arthur getting eeben mower personiddle. He calt me a doort boord the utter day, so I calt him a pox bottle, then he says I was oatenly a geebag, and says I, ‘We’ll see who’s a geebag in August’.”
"Yeah, no, it's very different to the kind of banter you get before a Six Nations match, I have to say."
“He’s a dead man, Rosser. A dead man walken.”
I don’t doubt it, by the way. I’m looking at Ro. He’s totally ripped. He’s got abs like an upturned egg box and biceps like knots on a rope.
“Dude,” I go, “I need to ask you for a favour.”
He’s there, “A fabour?”
“I want you to train me.”
“Thrain you? Are you thinking of going into mixed meertial eerts?”
“No, I’m not thinking of going into mixed mortial orts. I’ve put my name down for a 10k race.”
"I saw that on Honor's Facebook. "
“Well, let’s just say I’m not in as good a shape as I thought I was since I quit playing rugby.”
"She purr up a video of you beerfing your guts up on the Vico Road. "
“I may have possibly borfed while I was out running, yeah.”
“Spitting tuna chunks, you were. It was veddy fuddy. It’s arthur going voyerdull.”
“I’m well aware that it’s gone viral.”
"Honor wrote on it, 'My dad – he claims he could still do a job for someone in the All Ireland League! Pathetic much?'"
“Yeah, I saw that – thanks for the recap, Ro. That’s why I need to get fit. I need to beat this Garret dude in this race and win back her respect. So are you going to help me?”
“Course Ine gonna help you. Take off yisser shoort foorst.”
“What?”
“Your shoort – take it off you. I wanna see what koyunt of shape you’re in.”
I stort unbuttoning my shirt. “Bear in mind,” I go, “I’ve been eating takeaway for the past two weeks, because Sorcha’s on a drip and refuses to cook.”
I take my shirt off.
He's there, "Moy Jaysus!" and I don't think he means it in a good way. He grabs my – hey, I'm admitting it – spare tyre between his thumb and his forefinger and he goes, "Look at the Ned on you! You're like the bleaten Buddha, Rosser!"
I’m like, “Okay, it’s bad enough having my daughter slagging me off without you joining her. What am I going to do? I’ve only got, like, five weeks to get into shape.”
“If I take you on, Rosser, you’re gonna have to do things moy way – do you get me?”
“Okay.”
“No thrugs.”
“Drugs? Why are you bringing up drugs?”
“Because you were on thrugs when you won the rubby that toyum.”
“That was all blown up out of all proportion. It was a bit of methamphetamine, that’s all. And something that vets give to horses during a breech birth. I think it’s generally agreed that I would have been great with or without chemical help?”
“Well, this toyum, you’re doing it wirrout. You’re cubbing here twice a day – eight to 10 in the morden, then two to foyuv in the arthur noon.”
“That eight to 10 in the morning slot – is that negotiable? I generally like a lie-in.”
“Listen to me – the loy-ins are ober, do you get me?”
“Fair enough.”
“Do you want to be able to run 10 kays and beat this Gaddet sham? Or do you want to be the fedda puking he’s ring up on the soyud of the road – a million likes on Facebook?”
A million? God, it was only three-quarters-of-a-million last night.
“Okay,” I go, “I’ll do the training. I’ll set the alorm on my phone. Whatever it takes.”
He’s there, “The utter thing is Ine putting you on a doyut.”
“Okay, what kind of diet are we talking?”
“A doyut that’s rich in proteeyuns that regulate the biological patways responsible for metabodic function.”
“Okay, that sounds disgusting.”
“Bluebeddies, green tea, kayul, cedoddy, lebbons, peersley, red onions, cithrus faroots . . .”
“Yeah, no, it’s hord to see how you could make a meal out of that lot. What if I stuck to the Chinese but cut out the egg fried rice?”
“We’re gonna do this properdy, Rosser. It’s the sayum doyut what Codor McGregor foddows.”
“Conor McGregor?” I go. “Jesus, I’m not going to have to drink Budweiser, am I?”
And that’s when he says it – something that rocks me back on my literally heels.
“Ross, you’re gonna have to give up the thrink altogetter.”