Okay, brass tacks time. You don't bring whoever you're knocking off to a good restaurant.

Your bit on the side is your bit on the side, to be used, abused and discorded like a piece of kitchen roll. Taking her to a place like Peploes is like giving caviar to Blanchardstown . . . expensive, unnecessary and possibly even dangerous.

I'm tempted to point all of this out to Christian, roysh, except he's being, like, unbelievably secretive about the whole business, so I decide to just show up in the restaurant, roysh, just as they're ordering their storters, to show Christian that he's got to be more, I don't know, discreet, if that's the word.

Of course I also want to find out who he's knocking off and I'm thinking it's probably one of my sloppy seconds, trying to get to me through my best friend. My euros are on Naomi Noonan, who's actually a ringer for Shannon Doherty, not now, but when she was in 90210, and . . . without being crude . . . who's had more bones buried in her than Deansgrange focking Cemetery.

So half-eight, roysh, I pork the cor . . . as in my BMW Z4 . . . on Stephen's Green and I mosey over to the restaurant and tip down the steps. The maitre D dude asks if I have a reservation and I tell him I'm looking for someone. He goes to his list and he's like, "What's the name?" and I go, "That's the $64,000 question, " and I step past him and stort having a George Hook around the place.

Imagine my shock, roysh, when I cop Christian sitting at a table in the corner with, not Naomi Noonan, not even another bird, but with George Lucas, as in George focking Lucas.

I go over to them. I know I shouldn't but I do. I suppose I know what's happening here and I want to fock it up for him.

"Ross?" Christian goes when he sees me. He does not sound a happy bunny. I'm there, "What a focking coincidence. I just popped in for a bit of nosebag."

Christian introduces us, roysh, and when he describes me as his friend I have to add the word 'best' to it. Then I sit down and go, "You don't mind if I join you, do you? I see you've had the French onion soup, George, " and I end up asking the waiter for the same, followed by the grilled lobster with garlic butter, a bowl of frites and some green beans with garlic and bacon, taking it for granted, of course, that Lucasfilm are picking up the tab.

I know I'm being a pain in the orse, roysh, but I can't help it. It's like I'm on a mission.

I go, "I love your movies, by the way . . . not as much as this focking lunatic, obviously. But I've seen them all. Can't remember much of the last one, though. I was geeeyed. Remember that night, Christian? I got us focked out of the cinema in Dun Laoghaire."

Christian ignores me, roysh, and goes, "George, what were you saying earlier about the Sith?" and it's, like, okay, pretend I'm not here then.

So George Lucas goes, "Nothing you don't already know, I'm sure.

They're an ancient order whose history can be traced back to the time when the Jedi were the law enforcement arm of the Old Republic. A dissident, known only as the Dark Jedi, believed they couldn't fulfil their role as pacifists. They would have to embrace the Dark Side and the anger, fear and aggression that are functions of it."

I'm pulling faces at Christian to try to make him laugh. The main courses arrive. They're both having the traditional fish pie topped with mashed potato and parmesan.

George Lucas keeps going. He's like, "The Jedi Council, not surprisingly, expelled him. Some Jedi went with him and they called themselves the Sith. But their lack of discipline led to an internecine power struggle that all but wiped them out. The only survivor wasf" "Darth Bane, " Christian goes.

Sorry, am I, like, the only normal one at this table?

"Absolutely. And as you know, Christian, it was Bane who decided that the Sith could only survive and perpetuate itself by limiting its numbers to two . . . a master and an apprentice."

I yawn loudly. They both ignore me.

George Lucas goes, "When the master passed on, the apprentice would take over his role and he would himself take on an apprentice. I suppose what I'm asking you, Christian, in a very ham-fisted way, isf will you come to California to work at Lucasfilm?"

I knew it. I focking knew it.

Christian goes, "I thought you weren't making any more Star Warsmovies, " and George Lucas is like, "Well, I never say never. But I have made six . . . and those six have spawned an industry. We employ thousands of people, working on the various of spin-offs . . . cartoons, DVDs, merchandising. We need people with knowledgef" He reaches under the table, where he has a bag, and he pulls out a file that's as thick as a DBS first-year repeat. He goes, "You sent me a lot of letters over the years."

Christian goes, "You kept them?" and he's like, "Sure. We keep all correspondence. When you sent me your draft script for a possible Star Wars seven, I have to tell you, it got me thinking, maybe I do want to do three more. I hadn't felt that enthused about it. Hadn't felt enthused at all."

He goes, "So I had someone pull your file. Reading these, I was reminded of me as a young man. I need people like you around me."

"It'll cost you, " I hear myself go.

"A million a year."

George Lucas shrugs. "Sure."

"Okay, " I go. "Two million."

He turns to Christian. "Money is not going to be a stumbling block, " he goes. "I can assure you of that."

Christian nods. He's there, "I can't tell you how excited I am about this. It's like a dream come true. Obviously, I have to talk it over withf" I'm like, "His friends . . . the people who've stuck by him through thick and thin, " and Christian goes, "I was going to say my wife."

Suddenly, I have to get out of here. I can't handle yet another person leaving my life. But much as it breaks my hort to see him go, deep down I know it would be wrong to fock this up for him.

I throw one more forkful of lobster into me, then I throw my napkin down on the table, roysh, and stand up.

"May the Force be with you, " they both go. They're focking made for each other.

And what can I do, roysh, but make a W out of fingers and go, "Whatever."