She was also madder than a box of frogs, roysh, which I suppose should have been my cue to bail out of there, but of course it's, like, easy to be wise after the event?

Truth be told, roysh, I was enjoying the attention, having slipped into the conversation early on that I would have been on that field today, roysh, except that Michael Cheika seems to have a problem with my lifestyle. I knock back another shot, which Christian put in front of me, then throw half a pint down after it.

"Your lifestyle?" she goes.

"That's like, Oh my God!"

and I'm there, "You're damn roysh it is. I think the real issue, though, is he doesn't want any seriously goodlooking goys in the team. I suppose he's scared of that whole ladyboys tag."

She's like, "Oh my God, I bet they are SO regretting leaving you out now, " and I'm there, "Well, I've had two missed calls from him in the last hour. Haven't rung him back. Pride is a big thing with me, " and then, without batting an eyelid, I go, "And so is beauty, " and Slick Mick here puts his hand on her leg, roysh, and I know I'm in like Corey Flynn.

Fifteen minutes in the place and we're heading back to her gaff, roysh . . .

casual sex and whatever you're having yourself . . . and it happens so fast the bouncers on the door even offer me my money back.

I'm there, "No thanks . . . I got what I came for, " and they're looking at the bird, roysh, and they're obviously thinking, 'I would have thought someone like him could do better than that, ' and of course I could, roysh, but after that debacle this afternoon, I'm not in the mood for any lengthy chatting-up scenarios.

She lives in a gaff up in Christchurch, this bird, and with no Jo Maxis around, it involves trekking through focking Calcutta to get there. As we're walking, we're, like, looking at all the poverty and the dirt and the deprivation and she turns around to me, roysh, and goes, "It's when you see this that you realise that Dublin really is two cities, " and I'm like, "Yeah? Thank fock I live in the other one then."

We're, like, a couple of hundred yords short of her gaff, roysh, when up ahead we see the Feds pulling up in a cor and two coppers getting out. They stort talking to this rickshaw driver, who's standing next to these three muck savages in Munster jerseys. From what I overhear of the conversation, roysh, it seems one of the boggers threw a cheeseburger at the rickshaw dude.

Now I probably should have stayed the fock out of it, roysh, but as far as I was concerned this was an opportunity for payback for this afternoon. Before I knew what I was doing, roysh, I turned around to one of the Feds and went, "I saw everything, officer.

That man there threw a burger at this man here, " which was total bullshit for all I knew. I was like, "It was a good job it wasn't a turnip or he could have blinded him."

The three bogmen are denying everything, of course, but who are the Feds going to believe, three Limerick shit-shovellers who are off their faces or Enrique Iglesias here? So one of the cops is whipping out a notebook and pen and he's going, "Are you prepared to appear as a witness?" and I'm like, "Anything to keep the streets clean of thisf scum, " really laying it on thick. Having our orses kicked by Poc and Rog suddenly didn't hurt so much.

It put me in cracking form as well and she certainly enjoyed the benefit of that. I'm not one to, like, kiss and tell, roysh, but she turned out to be one of the most imaginative slappers to ever wear out a mattress.

So I was thinking, this might even go the full halfhour when all of a sudden, roysh, I hear, first, the front door slam, and then, the three words that every goy who fancies himself as a player dreads . . . "Shit! My boyfriend!"

Now I've been around the track more times than an electric hare, roysh, and over the years I've developed the skill of getting dressed while running into an ort form. In fact, if Getting Dress While Running was an Olympic event, I'df well, actually, I probably wouldn't turn up . . .I'd be off somewhere throwing one of the judges' wives a bone.

Anyway, roysh, cut a long story short, this goy moves like Denis Hickie, because I'm out on the first floor balcony, throwing my Leinster shirt over my head, and at the same time wondering if it's too high to jump, when all of a sudden, he's in the bedroom behind me and I hear him go, "Who the fock is that out on the balcony?"

and I turn around, roysh, and see him through the french doors and the old Ned does a quick somersault. He's a focking giant!

So what does the bird do?

She storts screaming, roysh, that real high-pitched shit and the goy goes, "Quick, ring the police, " and as she's doing that he opens the doors and, without saying anything, hits me the kind of punch that would have put Paul O'Connell on his orse. I was just a bit winded, of course.

When I got my breath back, I was like, "Look, I'm not a burglar. If you must know, I was in the process of scoring your bird when you walked in, " which doesn't come out quite the way I intended it to.

The bird, roysh, she goes, "You're a liar! I've never seen you before in my life, " which is when I realise that she's focking madder than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

The goy goes, "What's her name, then?" and I'm thinking, 'Shit! That's one question I'm going to have to stort asking.' I'm there, "We didn't actually get that far, " and he decks me again and probably the only thing that saved this beautiful boat race was the arrival of the Feds, who bought their story and hauled my orse off to cop shop.

"An hour in the drunk tank will do you the world of good, " one of the cops goes.

And as he brings me into the cell block, I can hear all these voices singing the Fields of Athenry.

So the cop turns the key and opens up this humungous cell, which is basically full of bogger types, arrested for overenthusiastic celebrations. And yeah . . . you guessed . . . three who were arrested for, of all things, throwing a hamburger at a rickshaw driver.

Have these cops nothing better to do. The goy just pushes me in, slams the door behind me and goes, "Be gentle with him, boys."

ROSS'S GUIDE TO LIFE NO 59: BALLYBRACK

Once a word that struck fear into the horts of peaceloving southsiders, The Brack is now the only place between Bray and the Liffey where it's still possible for the average stockbroker or lawyer to buy a gaff.

According to Fionn . . . who did a hell of a lot of listening in school for a rugby player . . . it is "the birthplace of Sean Lemass, the home of John Dillon, the place where Michael Davitt died and where James II stayed for "ve days en route to France after the Battle of the Boyne".

And though I haven't a focking clue who any of those people are, it's pretty clear that Ballybrack is a place rich in history.

So why are my spies in the post of"ce telling me that all the stockbrokers and lawyers who are moving there in their droves are giving their addresses as, 'south Killiney'?

AT A LOSS? TEXT ROSS Text Ross your thoughts on 086 333 2272 for a chance to win a 'You so would' t-shirt Conor from Cork goes, "Alrite Ross biy! In your column of April 15th, you insulted Munster and, even worse, you insulted CORK. In so doing, you crossed a line you cannot be allowed to cross. Leinster's defeat is YOUR fault."

And fock-all to do with a number 10 who couldn't hit a cow's orse with a tennis racquet? Interesting!

Some dude who doesn't give his name is there, "Face it ross . . . it was men against goys."

What can I say? I was wrong. I prostrate myself before the legends that are Poc, Rog and Strings.

Ladies' bicycle: for the Leinster team John from Rathfarnham goes, "How are Munster fans genetically different from Leinster fans? Munster fans lack the Hy Gene."

Yeah, John, and we lack the Hy Neken Cup "nal place.

Tommy from the Bogs goes, "It's 'baling' hay, not 'bailing' like you said last week. So much for private education."

Tommy, my old pair sent me to Castlerock to ensure I never had to know about matters agricultural. I would say, by that reckoning, my school career was a success.

Some bird called Carolyn goes, "Did you hear that all the Leinster team are being issued with ladies' bikes? They had problems getting their balls over a crossbar."

Lorc from Cork goes, "Hav u noticd d hoards of butch, frontrow 'TOYOTA' birds wearing 'Monster' jerseys?

TOYOTA is Tough Oversized Young Ones Totalling Alcopops."

We'll say nothing of Leinster's Seriously Underweight Birds Always Radiating from the Ultraviolet.

Some dude who doesn't give his name goes, "Dublin Bus rip-off. Pay fare, no change, just a receipt 2 cash in @ head office, which doesn't open @ weekends and closes 4 lunch."

And it's on O'Connell Street, to further deter people for looking for their change.

It's a good job I've got a BMW Z4. If I had to use public transport, I'd probably be outraged too.