It's like, does he even know where he is?

"Hasn't escaped my attention, Kicker, that the squad for the autumn internationals is being announced this afternoon, " he goes, before he's even sat down.

"Come on, don't keep me in suspense . . . have you had a call?"

I go, "Cop the fock on, will you?" and he's there, "Sorry, Ross. It's just our friend from Youghal is talking about new faces and I figured, well. . . Excuse me if I'm sounding a bit chipper today, by the way."

I'm like, "Don't tell me . . . you've storted digging a tunnel, " and he laughs as he docks his orse opposite me. I go, "Trust me, there isn't a reason in the world for you to feel chipper in this shithole. Unless they're putting happy pills in your milk."

I look around me. The visiting room's full of scaldy faces, skinny bodies and Adidas everything.

It's like Hill 16 on heroin.

"Don't believe anything you read in the papers about this place, " he goes. "It's a cracking little prison, Ross, full of tremendous characters. You see that chap over there?"

I'm like, "I don't think you should be actually pointing in here?" and I look around and the goy he's talking about is a wiry little focker with greased down hair and a Dublin jersey, with Arnotts across the front. Clever morkeshing, that . . . it's where most of the Dubs fans shoplift.

"He's called Git, " the old man goes. "First or last name, I'm not sure. I'll ask him later. Pop around to his cell and so forth.

Oh, he's a fascinating character, Ross. He smuggles all sorts of contraband into the prison, seef" I'm like, "Not that I care whether you get a kicking, but you probably should keep your voice down?" but he's not listening. He's there, "Puts it up his, er, you knowf The Keester Bunny, they call him. I wanted to have a word with him, see could he get me The Irish Times. I mean, the Indo would be easier, given you can get it in tabloid, but I'm desperate to know how a certain G Thornley Esquire, newly ensconced in Tara Street, thinks we'll acquit ourselves against Australia, full stop, new par."

I'm there, "How the fock are you still alive?"

Suddenly, his head goes up, roysh, and he's obviously spotted someone he knows. "Lex!" he storts shouting. Then he stands up and it's like, "Lex, old chap!"

Then he goes, "Oh, he hasn't heard me, " and he sits down and he's there, "Lex is my new cellie, Ross. Hard as old boots, to coin a phrase. Armed robbery, malicious wounding and whatnot. They've just shanghai-ed the chap up from Cork. He must have been inside a long time . . . would you believe, he'd never heard of Peter Stringer?"

I'm there, "Sorry, did I just actually hear you use prison slang?" and he goes, "Oh, yes, you pick it up. Don't worry, though, I'm not about to get strung out on gear, quote-unquote. Ross, I haven't told you the reason yet for my felicity. I had a visitorf" I'm like, "At last . . . that focking wench you're married to?" and he goes, "Er, no, not your mother, Ross . . . that little chap of yours, young Ronan."

I'm like, "Ronan?" as in the child whose existence this focker denied for years. "Why would Ronan want tof" "He knew I was a drive-up. I think he was afraid they were going to walk the dogs on me in here. Seems your little fellow's not without friends on the, inverted commas, inside."

I go, "Why does that not actually surprise me?"

He's there, "I told him I was fine, naturally. Told him what a great bunch of chaps I had on my landing. So then it turns out his uncle is in the same block. One of the faces, if you don't mind. You remember young Anto, of course . . . he lived with us when you did that cultural exchange."

I'm there, "That'd be the same Anto who stole the Jack B Yeats original from your study, would it?" and he goes, "Ah, we've squared it away, Ross. What I didn't realise when I made my statement at Cabinteely garda station was young Anto had a Jones . . . sorry, a drugs problem."

I'm there, "Fock me, I wouldn't have guessed that now. Can we actually stop talking about the cast of Carrickstown for five minutes? What's the Jackanory with the old dear?"

He sits back, then he goes, "If your mother doesn't want to see me, Ross, I can't force her. I could be looking at a dime here, Kicker.

That's a long time to wait. Your mother's still an attractive woman, " and I'm there, "No, she's not. She's a focking hound. I've seen better-looking things on the end of a fishing line."

He goes, "Ross, I'm not cappin' your mother. Yes, I could sit around my Peter all night, bitchin' up, but what would be the point? She's in a different space now and I am too. Being in here has opened my eyes. A chap this morning doowopped the food line. Another chap bugged out and came at him with a shank and our friend gets bladed up. So now the other chap's in bing, doing Buck Rogers time."

I'm there, "I actually didn't understand a word of that, " and he goes, "Means he's looking at an EPRD . . . that's an Earliest Possible Release Date, to you, me and the chaps from Portmarnock . . . some time in the 25th century."

The next thing he goes, "Careful . . . birds on the line, " and I turn around and a screw walks past. When he's gone, the old man goes, "Being in here has changed me. Did you know there are people in here who've never tasted Osso Bucco? Who've never golfed, Ross? Who don't own shares? There's a whole hidden Ireland I never knew existed."

I'm there, "Some of us would rather not know, " and he goes, "Not me, though. See this chap here, " and he points at this, like, really emaciated-looking goy three or four tables down. "Has a drugs problem, too. It's nigh on impossible to get a new works in here . . . that's a syringe. Well this chap, he fashions them himself, using the tube of a common-orgarden biro. Well, you know how I admire ingenuity. Imagine what he could do on the outside."

Presumably he's in here for what he did on the outside.

I'm there, "Dad, " and I must be worried, roysh, because I never call him that. I go, "Dad, just be careful, will you?"

"They have a saying in here, " he goes. "Doing time is a case of mind over matter. You learn quickly they don't mind and you don't matter. Young Anto gave me two pieces of advice . . . drink plenty of water and walk slow."

I'm there, "Walk slow?" and he goes, "None of us is going anywhere."

I'm there, "Just be careful, " as I get up. "You could get hurt here."

He looks as happy as I've ever seen him. How focked up is that?

"I don't think so, Ross. Who's going to talk the governor into giving us some TV time for the forthcoming internationals?"

Ross's Guide To Life

Text Ross your thoughts on 086 333 2272 for a chance to win a 'You so would' t-shirt Some dude called Fiachra goes, "Forget d OC . . . old Baywatch reruns ar d perfect way 2 'unwind'. 4got how hot yasmine bleeth was."

Is it my imagination or is nobody getting married anymore?

JJ from D6 is like, "Had the misfortune to be on the welfare-claimant express that is the red luas.

Want to warn other high income-earners to avoid it."

Yes, only use the green one, which sticks to the south Dublin demilitarised zone.

Some dude whose name I'm not going to print is there, "My girlfriend is from limerick, im from Dublin, who should I follow, she's pressuring me to jump on the red army bandwagon."

Me and the goys have a saying . . . Irish by birth, Munster by the grace of God, clothes by Shaws of Dooradoyle . . . fifty quid the entire rig-out. You want to associate with that crew? She must have three knockers.

Alan goes, "Toothpaste gets rid of vom on dubes."

Thanks, Alan. We like to cover all the big issues.