I've had her as well, the one with all the orange make-up - Carrotine Cathy.

That's when Oisinn turns around and goes, "What the fock is that? Bottom left hand corner, " and we all sort of, like, strain our eyes, roysh, and stare at the screen and unless I'm very much mistaken it's a focking bogger, wearing, of all things, a Munster jersey - I mean, here, in Lillies?

Oisinn goes, "What the fock do we pay those bouncers for?" and I go, "Sometimes they just wander in. Like flies. He'll go out again when he realises we don't play any Shania Twain in here."

So we all sit there watching him on the old CCTV, roysh, as he staggers around the club, spilling Beamish everywhere - I wasn't even aware we sold that shit - and trying to, like, chat up birds who are clearly in another league, we're talking a Parker Pen goy chancing his orm in the Heineken Cup of honeys.

One F's there, "You can see where that whole Munster slash David and Goliath thing comes from, can't you?" and just as we're all there agreeing with him, roysh, the goy suddenly disappears off the radar, as in he's suddenly not on any of the screens.

So there I am, about to send Peasey down to look for him when all of a sudden, roysh, there's a knock on the door and who is it, roysh, only him. I'm straight out of my seat, going, "Sinnott's is the other end of Grafton Street?" and he's like, "Sinnott's? No, begorrah, I'm looking for Fionn, " and I swear to God, roysh, every pair of eyes in the room turns to where that four-eyed freak is sitting, with a big focking reddener on him.

The bogger goes, "I'm Shay - Fionn's cousin, " and quick as a flash, roysh, Fionn goes, "Second cousin, " and of course I invite the focker in then - anything to embarrass old SpecSavers.

I go, "Sit down. I'll go and see have we any Lucozade, " and of course we're all cracking our holes laughing.

The goy goes, "Ah, not that oul Leinster versus Munster muck, begorrah and be-to-hokey. Sure it's only an oul match, boys.

We're all from the same country, aren't we?" and straight away I'm like, "Same country? Hello? I live in a world of beautiful babes, BMW Z4s and dinner in Shanahans on a Friday night. You live in a world of dishcos, bailing hay and, I don't know, cruelty to hares?" which is a cracking line, you have to admit.

He's like, "Ah now, apart from the fact that we're gonna bait you out the gate next weekend, what could you possibly have against Munster?"

So One F, roysh, who focking hates boggers - though you'd never know it from what he writes in The Northside Stor - goes, "George Webbs. Levis.

George Webb shoes with Levis. Dire Straits. The way you all spit on your hands before you do anything that might pass for hord work.

The ould double glazing.

The way your birds all call each other ?lads'?" Then he's like, "Eating hot cross buns even when it's not even Easter.

Referring to any nonalcoholic drink that isn't tea, coffee, milk or water as ?minerals'. Saying you've ?a gra' for something. Barn breac. Keeping greyhounds as pets. Spuds. Not saying very much. Garth Brooks.

Going to Alicante on your holidays. Red hair that just doesn't quite sit right.

Going to mass and standing at the back?" And we're all cracking our holes laughing, roysh, portly at this pure focking bile that One F's coming out with but mostly at Fionn's embarrassment. But then, roysh, out of the blue, this Shay goy hits us with a sucker punch.

He goes, "So? how many of your lot are on the Ireland team these days, boys?" and I'm there, "You mean Leinster players?"

and he's like, "No, bejaysus, I mean your lot - southside boys, " and he's got this, like, smug look on his face, roysh, like he knows he's found a soft spot and I've got a sick feeling in the old Ned as I'm going through the team in my head. .

Well, Geordan's not. Nor is the Girvinator really.

Shaggy's from out in the wilds. And I know Dorce storted off life as a bogger.

The Dricmeister's a northsider, though it's kept pretty hush-hush. Big Mal's from practically Tallaght.

The rest are either boggers or from Northern Ireland? I turn around to the goys, roysh, I suppose looking for reassurance. I'm like, "Derek?" but One F sort of, like, shakes his head sadly and goes, "He's right, Ross.

We're a dying breed."

I go, "Okay, that's another reason I've got to get back playing serious rugby and make the squad by the autumn, " to which Oisinn, Christian and One F raise their glasses and go, "You the man, Ross! You the man!"

I turn around to this Shay character and I go, "You better hit the road.

They'll be opening the stiles into Copper's any minute now, " and he's there, "I know, I'm heading there now. Sure, I'm only in here to pick up a few oul tickets."

I'm there, "Tickets? No Leinster fan's going to sell his ticket to one of your crowd?" and he goes, "Sure, I'm after buying 50, begorrah, " and suddenly I'm feeling Moby. I go, "From who? Describe him, " and he goes, "A little fella. Stud in his ear?" I look up at the screen and there he is, roysh, leaning against the wall, surrounded by bogmen, dealing them out like cords and stuffing notes into the pocket of his hoody. He's a dead man.

I'm down the stairs two at a time and I'm straight over to him. I'm like, "Ronan, what the fock are you doing?" and, out of the corner of his mouth, he goes, "Rosser, stall the ball, will ye?" and I'm there, "No, I won't. I can't believe a son of mine is helping out the enemy like this. These people are from Cork.

Limerick, some of them.

You can't agree with that sort of thing?" And suddenly out of the corner of his mouth, he goes, "Shut the fook up, Rosser. They're forgeries, " and at that moment, well, I know I don't say it often enough, roysh, but I'm proud to be his old man.