CHARLES Ross . . . no relation to me or my old man . . . is this, like, Canadian dude who does this one-man stage show where he goes through the first three Star Wars movies in, like, an hour, doing the story, the voices, the whole shebang.

It's on in, like, Spirit at the moment and, even though Middle Abbey Street smells of sour milk and kebab meat, I ended up going to it on Wednesday night with . . . obviously . . .

Christian, who had two tickets.

It was a focking cracking show, roysh, and afterwards as we were pegging up Liffey Street and over the bridge to get back to the safe side of the river, Christian turns around to me and goes, "I'm thinking of doing a similar stand-up act myself. Except I'df er, what's the opposite of condense?"

and I'm there, "Dude, I don't even know what condense means, " and he's like, "Doesn't matter. I'd do the three films over the course of four days, " and I went, "Christian, you've already been doing them over the course of twenty-four years."

'O H FOR heaven's sake, " Sorcha's old man goes and he grabs the napkin off his lap and focks it down on the table.

"How much more of this do we have to listen to?"

I was actually halfway through telling a story about the time we played Clongowes, roysh, and I sold Gordon D'Arcy an unbelievable dummy and the goy ended up doing his focking hernia.

"Why does the conversation always have to revolve around you?" he goes.

I have to say, roysh, I didn't realise he was such a big Dorse fan. I suppose on top of that there is the fact that he hates my actual guts.

Sorcha's old dear turns around and goes, "Edmund! Don't spoil the day . . . this is supposed to be a celebration, " and the goy just gives me a filthy, roysh, then goes back to his roast beef.

We're having Sunday lunch in Le Panto, roysh, in the Radisson in Stillorgan and what we're celebrating is the fact that from next Monday . . . drum roll . . .

Sorcha's going to be selling Rock and Republic jeans in the shop.

Exactly. Big swinging mickey.

But portly to piss her old man off . . . and portly to show that I am actually a nice goy? . . . I turn around to Sorcha and I go, "Tell us a bit more about these jeans, Babes, " and without looking up I can tell that her old man is staring at me like he wants to rip my orms out of my focking sockets.

Sorcha looks up from her clam and rocket risotto and goes, "They cost 400 a pair and I can't keep up with the demand for them.

Twenty pairs of VB Rocks arrived in yesterday and I've already got, like, 70 orders. It's like, Oh! My!

God!" and I'm there, "I'd imagine it is . . . these are the ones that Victoria Beckham wears, aren't they?" laying it on with a focking trowel now.

She nods and I raise my glass and propose a toast to my wonderful wife and her great business brain, roysh, and her prick of an old man has no choice but to join in.

Sorcha's sister . . . Asia or Oola or whatever the fock she's called . . .

turns around and goes, "Sorcha, did I tell you I got that basque in the end?" and Sorcha goes, "The Agent Provocateur one?" and the sister nods and she's like, "The baby pink one, " and this obviously means something, roysh, because Sorcha does not look a happy camper.

While this conversation is taking place, I should add that the sister has kicked off one of her Dubes and is doing her usual trick of . . . without wanting to sound crude . . . bringing me off under the table with her foot.

She's going, "It's really soft. I'll have to show it to you, Ross, " and I swear to God, roysh, I've a focking rod on me like a tyre iron.

I take a drink of water and try to think about some of the birds Fionn's been with over the years, to try to, like, bring down the swelling, but it's no good.

She's going, "I bought a balcony bra as well. It's amazing. It sort of, like, pushes everything up, " and of course nobody says a focking Charlie Bird to her.

I try to pull my chair back a bit but she has legs like Shane focking Horgan. There's no getting away from her. "When I put it on, my breasts are up here. And they feel SO firm."

I swear to God, roysh, I'm going to need the bathroom any second now.

But then, roysh, just in the nick of time, the old Wolfe Tone rings . . .

the Hawaii Five-O theme tune, which no one in La Panto seems to love, it has to be said . . . and, without thinking, I jump up and go, "I have to take this . . . it could be Michael Cheika."

I answer it, roysh, and it's a man's voice going, "I'm looking for Ross O'Carroll-Kelly?" and I'm there, "You're talking to the legend, " and as I'm saying this, roysh, I'm walking out of the restaurant and heading for the Orangerie, having decided I need a couple of straighteners if I'm going to spend another 10 minutes with that focking family.

"This is Richard Cathcart, " the voice goes, "from the chief state solicitor's office, " and he lets it hang there, roysh, like it's supposed to focking mean something to me.

I go, "Going to need more info, Dude, " and he suddenly loses it, roysh. He's there, "How many Cathcarts do you know? I'm Katelyn Cathcart's father, " and I'm thinking, why didn't he just say that? Why did he even mention where he works? Then I realise, roysh, that it's just to put the shits up me.

He's there, "I'm going to give you a warning . . . stay away from my daughter, " and I turn around, roysh, and I'm like, "Hey, that's the easy part . . . the question is, can she stay away from me?"

Katelyn, I probably should mention, is this bird I met in Dakota . . . as in the bor, not the state . . . we're talking three actual months ago?

In fairness to her, she is a ringer for Elize du Toit and, yeah, I've thrown her a bone more than once, but she knows the SP, in other words that I'm with someone else. But she's a bird who's used to getting what she wants and it seems she went home in tears one night, probably the night I scored her mate in Cocoon . . . she'd a face like bucket of burnt Lego . . . and told her old pair the Jackanory.

I knock back a cheeky JD while the goy continues to rip me out of it. He's going, "My daughter has a big future ahead of her. You know, she got her Blackhall exams, in spite of everything you put her through. She's going to go into conveyancing . . . and soon enough she'll have forgotten all about you, " and, just for the crack, I go, "Hey . . .

they never forget."

The goy's there, "I beg your pardon?" and if he could legally shoot me now, he would.

I'm thinking, fathers and their daughters.

I'm like, "Do you want to know what Katelyn's problem is? She's never known anything except getting her own way. And if that's not your fault, I don't know whose focking fault it is."

A few people look up from their drinks. I order another JD.

He goes, "Oh, you're going to give me parenting advice now, are you? Of course, you've had the best. I was reading about your father in the Sunday Independent."

I'm there, "Say what you like about him. I hate that focker more than anyone."

"Well, " he goes, all satisfied with himself, "if that's the way you speak about your own father, it's no wonder that my little angelf" and . . . hilarious, roysh, . . . I cut him off by going, "Hey, she might me an angel to you, but I'm happy to tell you she's a focking devil in the sack."

At a loss? . . . .Text Ross Text Ross your thoughts on 086 333 2272 for a chance to win a 'You so would' t-shirt Some poor unfortunate goes, "Hey ross, the folks kicked me out 2 wks ago, only gave me 15k to last me til d trust fund kicks in in 16 months time. Got 10k left.

Any ideas?"

Fifteen grand to live on? That's, like, child abuse. I'd suggest tightening your belt in various ways, for instance drinking martinis instead of mojitos in the Ice Bor. You could also claim the dole. I know it's working class but you don't have to stand in line with poor people anymore. They pay it by direct debit.

Some dude who doesn't give his name is there, "Fock sake . . . advertising supermacs in lansdowne, this is SO not southside."

Supernacks, more like. Yeah, I want to be there when the wrecking ball takes out that part of the East Stand.

Eddie T in Clane goes, "Hey ledge, any chance of a pic of model and former miss ireland andrea roche, the hottest totty in ireland?"

There's every chance, Eddie. I was flicking through one of Sorcha's VIPs the other day and I noticed she's on the staff there now as, like, a contributing editor or something.

That's her and Bianca under the same roof. I don't know where that magazine's based but the building should be focking listed.

Dick in Tarf goes, "How come ur not in McWilliams book?"

And more to the point, why wasn't I on his programme? He interviewed a bunch of deliverymen bringing The Working Class Star to petrol stations about the Celtic Tiger and didn't come near me and the goys. And he'll be all over us next time we're in Finnegans, trying to get a drink out of us.