I swear to God, roysh, she never cries like this when Sorcha's around. All week, she's been laughing and, I don't know, gurgling and all the other shit that happy babies do. Sorcha calls to Aoife's for a few glasses of wine and she suddenly turns into basically a screaming machine.

A couple of weeks ago, Sorcha's granny . . . who hates my actual guts . . . picked up on this, the fact that Honor gets basically distressed around me.

"That baby doesn't like him, " she goes to Sorcha, like I wasn't even in the room. I tried to laugh it off by going, "She'd be the first member of the female population to feel that way, " but the granny just gave me a serious filthy and went, "No . . . not the first, " and I had to leave the kitchen, roysh, because I didn't want that focking battleaxe to see me upset.

It's a pretty hord thing knowing that your own flesh and blood can't stand the actual sight of you.

Me and Honor just haven't bonded and I have to admit, roysh, that's as much my fault as it is hers.

So I decide to make the effort for once. I go upstairs and, like, pick her out of her cot, which makes her, like, kick and scream even more. So I bring her downstairs and I try out a few tricks Sorcha has to get her to, like, settle, in other words talking to her sort of, like, softly rubbing her back and that kind of shit.

I probably should add that the pen off her is seriously focking Padraig. She's had Chris Rea's Welsh cousin around . . . in other words, Dai . . . for the past week and I'm actually going to have to do an emergency nappy change, roysh, because I've a Chinese ordered and I am SO not going to be able to eat it with that focking smell in the room.

It might even be one of the reasons she's crying.

So I put a towel down on the good Italian leather sofa, roysh, and I get the nappy off her and it has to be said, roysh, it's not a pretty sight. I'll spare you the details, but basically we've all been there. Shitting custard.

I go into the kitchen and grab a packet of baby wipes and there I am, roysh, cleaning up Ground Zero and I'm thinking, some focking Friday night this is. I should be in Reynords, telling birds shit they want to hear and breaking horts left, roysh, and centre, instead of this.

I go to stick a clean nappy on her, but without any success, it has to be said, because she won't lie still for me, roysh.

Now, Christian, roysh, as her godfather, had bought her this, like, Tigger baby bouncer, which you sort of, like, hang out of the frame of the door, roysh, then sit a baby in it and let her sort of, like, bounce up and down.

Anyway, roysh, Sorcha reckons that Honor's still too young for it but I'm prepared to try anything at this stage to get her to stop crying, so I whip the thing out of the box and I set it up.

It's actually a pretty cool thing.

It makes this, like, boing-boing sound effect as it goes up and down and, despite her kicking, I manage to get her into the little horness and I stort bouncing her up and down in it and, though she's not exactly John B, she does stop crying.

It's at that exact moment, roysh, that Oisinn rings and goes, "Ross, stick on RTE1. Your old dear's on the Late Late, " and of course I hit the channel straight away and up comes her stupid focking face . . . ugly as a shot dog . . .

with half of Pamela Scott's window hanging off her.

Now, you've probably all heard about her writing this focking chicklit novel, while the old man's basically rotting in the can.

So Pat Kenny's there going, "You're the first of the new wave of women's fiction writers to grasp thef sexual nettle, as it were, and write, well, steamy love scenes. That must have taken a lot of courage."

Courage? I'll have words with that focker next time I see him in The Queens.

"I think I'm a veryf sensuous woman, " the old dear goes . . . her new catchphrase . . . and suddenly there's all this, like, whooping and hollering from the audience.

"I'm a woman who knows what she likes . . . and why she likes itf" That's it. I'm focking emigrating in the morning.

She's going, "I don't think any one of us is ever finished exploring his or her sexuality and I wrote Criminal Assets as part of Late Late Show. I just want to ask that bitch, I mean woman, who her major influences are as a writer, " and, to cut a long story short, she puts me through, and the next thing Pat's going, "Okay, we have a caller. Ross, is it?" and I can actually see the old dear's face drop. She's thinking, is it?

Too focking roysh it is.

I go, "Yeah, my question is this.

Why don't you deal with your sexual frustrations like the rest of the world . . . buy a couple of magazines, hit the jacks, and don't be bothering the rest of us with your sick shit, you pugfaced, back-stabbing, mangeridden weapon of mass destruction. By the way, I don't mean you, Pat, " then I hang up.

The only thing is, roysh, I didn't realise I was taking my anger out on the baby bouncer, roysh, and Honor's spent the last 10 minutes bungee-jumping up and down at, like, 90 miles an hour. She seems happy enough but something tells me, roysh, that with her stomach in the shape it's in, this is actually not a good thing?

Something tells me I'd better get another nappy on her fast, so I whip her out of the thing but it's too late. I hear this, like, gurgling sound and then she just, like, explodes, sending a spray of youknow-what everywhere . . . shit, basically . . . pebble-dashing the toasted almond, matt-finished walls.

And she's laughing, roysh. For the first time ever, I've managed to get a laugh out of her.

My phone beeps and it's a text from Sorcha. Her and Aoife were obviously watching the show. It's like, "OMG, that was SO not a cool thing to do, Ross, " and I'm looking at the living room walls . . .

it's like some kind of focking dirty protest . . . and I'm thinking, you don't actually know the half of it.

At a loss? Text Ross Text Ross your thoughts on 086 333 2272 for a chance to win a 'You so would' t-shirt The Orange Peeler goes, "I know ur takin a year off to let d birds appreciate wot theyre missing ross but it's a sad day when rosy davidson has 2 find a goy on bebo.

Come on man get back out der and stort givin d birds wot dey want."

I know . . . outflanked by a computer geek.

Consider me back in the game.

Some dude who doesn't give a name goes, "I work near d dail and it's so headwreckng wen skobies protest about being poor outside."

I know. Where are those May Day Gardai?

They be baton-charging the real criminals.

Peter in Roscommon goes, "Was at the autumn international against the aussies in croke park last Sunday. Now I haven't been to a rugby match for a while but I didn't know any of the irish team and they've changed the shape of the ball. What's the story?"

International (Anarchy) Rules. Boggers reverting to type.

Barney goes, "Recorded the Girls Aloud concert today, just after watching it for the 4th time in a row . . . my hand is in bits!"

That's the great thing about unemployment. The money's not the Mae West but the hours are brilliant.