It's great that Ronan has scored - and with a bird from Mount Anville - but hearing the facts of life from your, like, 10-year-old son is enough to put you off your fried eggs.
One of my, I suppose, biggest problems is that I, like, think too deeply about stuff? Like the other day, roysh, I'm in the scratcher, flicking through one of the old dear's VIPs, and there, all of a sudden, is a picture of that Cian O'Connor with Georgina Bloomberg, the mayor of New York's daughter, and of course my instant reaction is, there's something seriously NQR there.
I mean, it goes without saying that I'm in a different league to Cian O'Connor looks-wise - I've certainly got better Taylor Keith - but then I'm thinking actually maybe I picked the wrong sport all those years ago. Okay, I do alright scenario-wise, but that horsey set - it's, like, a whole other world. We're talking looks, we're talking brains, we're talking serious wedge - plus, as anyone who's ever been to the horse show knows, they're banging like dodgem cors.
So I'm, like, deep in contemplation about all of this when the old Theobald rings and a little voice goes, "Rosser - I want to arrange a meet." I'm like, "Cool - as in where?" and he goes, "I'm not saying it over the blower - it's a party line," which is working class for, the Gords are listening in, which of course they're not.
He goes, "There's a phone buke on the hall table downstairs, with a page turned down - go and get it." I do what he tells me. The page folded down is, like, pubs and restaurants and he's drawn a big black circle with morker around the name of a cafe on, like, Capel Street.
I'm like, "How the fock did you get in here to do this?" but he just goes, "Loose lips, Rosser - just be there at one." It's, like, hord for parents who don't have full custody of their kids but I hope Britney Spears doesn't have to go through this to see hers.
He's waiting for me when I arrive, sitting at the table furthest from the door. "One too many window-shoppers," he goes, winking at me. A window-shopper is, like, an undercover cop. "How was the rubby?" I'm like, "Pretty kack actually. I'd say Drico's kicking himself for not being born a Kiwi," and I catch the eye of this waitress and ask for two full breakfasts.
There's, like, something different about Ronan, something I can't put my finger on, roysh, but after listening to five minutes of him babbling on about police harassment, I finally cop what it is. He's got, like, gel in his hair and he's wearing aftershave, a brand which - from the little knowledge I have of skobies and their smells - is called Blue Stratos.
I know what's coming even before he says it. "I'm after meeting a boord," he goes. I end up actually punching the air and going, "Yes!" He really is a chip off the old block.
I'm there, "You're a sly old dog, aren't you?" and for the first time since I met him, roysh, he actually gets embarrassed and storts giving it, "Ah, leave it, Rosser - will you?" Two breakfasts arrive. I don't know what's uglier - the waitress or what's on the plate. "So come on," I go, "who is she?" He's there, "Her name's Blaithin," and I'm like, "Blaithin?" having expected him to say, I don't know, Tracy or Natlee or Shadden. "Blaithin? Where did you, like, meet her and shit?" He's there, "She's in Mount Anville - the junior school. We're doing West Side Story with them - moderden day, set in Blanchardstown . . ." I'm like, "Blanchardstown? Jesus!" He goes, "So I offered to take her out there, show her some of the sights. She's playing Maria, see. She's from out your direction - Clonskeagh . . ." I'm suddenly thinking, oh my God, I know he's only 10 but is it time to have the chat - as in, the chat. I mean, they say it's important that kids are given the facts, so that in years to come they know what's what and they grow up with a responsible attitude towards blahdy blahdy blah.
I go, "Ronan, when a goy meets a bird . . ." but he cuts me off, roysh, and he's like, "Rosser, if you knew the foorst thing about the boords and the bees, then I wouldn't be here today," which is basically true - bang out of order but basically true.
He goes, "Look, they teach you all that in biology now - a sperm cell swims through the cervix and across the length of the uterus and fuses with the ovum to form a zygote . . ." I'm there, "TMI, Ronan! T-M-I! I don't know if you've noticed but I'm actually trying to eat a fried egg here?" What was wrong with the way we learned it? It's a man's occupation to stick his coculation in a woman's ventilation to increase the population of the younger generation of the world . . .
I'm like, "So if it's not the big fatherly chat you're looking for, what am I actually doing here?" "I just wanted to let you know," he goes, "in case you read it in the Wurdled on Sunday - I'm going straight . . ." I'm like, "Straight? As in?" and he goes, "I'm keeping the old snout clean from now on," and then he thinks for a minute and goes, "Look, brace yourself, Rosser - be honest with you, I was never as deep into croyim as I told you. Lot of it was just talk. Dreams, I suppose." I'm there going, "No way!" because you have to humour this kid.
He nods sort of, like, sadly.
Then I ask the question that's been in the back of my mind since he said Clonskeagh. "Have her old pair met you yet?" "Bit early for that," he goes. "Sure we've only been texting a week. Why?" I'm there, "No, I just wondered are they . . ." What I mean to say is - are they like my old pair? In the end I don't say anything, just let my voice trail off.
I look down. He hasn't touched his breakfast. I nod at it and go, "The trick is to eat it before the fat congeals on the plate." "I can't eat," he goes.
Can't eat. Can't stop smiling. We've all been there.