'HOW'S about I read her a story?"

Ronan goes. He's holding Honor and it's amazing, roysh, because even though she's teething, there's not a peep out of her.

I'm like, "You can read her a story - as long as it's not from one of your Chopper books, " and he laughs, roysh, and then shakes his head and goes, "Not from one of your Chopper books - I like that, Rosser."

It's Christmas Eve, roysh, and Ronan thinks we're bringing him to Dundrum to choose his present, but that was just, like, a ruse - if that's the word - to get him here?

Sorcha's at the window, watching. I hear a cor pull up outside and she's like, "Oh my God, Ross, it's him."

"Who?" Ronan goes, "Who are you looking out for, Sorcha?" I'm just there, "Ro, we have a little surprise for you. We didn't know what to get you for Christmas.

You have a replica pistol. You have those Ronnie Kray halfglasses I bought you for your birthday?" Sorcha makes this excited noise, takes the baby out of Ronan's orms, then goes back to the window. She's like, "He's coming up the path, Ross. Oh my God, he's, like, SO much taller than I expected."

Suddenly the doorbell rings and I stand behind the door and open it, leaving Ronan staring into the eyes of? The Monk.

I watch his jaw drop until his mouth is just, like, a big O and the goy, in fairness to him, goes, "Howiya, Ronan - you coming for a spin?" and Ronan looks over the goy's shoulder at the big stretch Hummer, blocking an entire lane of traffic on Newtownpork Avenue.

"Merry Christmas, " Sorcha goes and I honestly have never seen the kid more happy.

The Monk shakes my hand, then Sorcha's and goes, "I'm Gerry, " and it's true what they say, roysh, he's a total focking gentleman. He goes, "Come on so, let's hit the road, " and I give Sorcha a kiss on the cheek and tell her I'll see her in the afternoon and The Monk's already halfway up the path, with Ronan running alongside him, trying to match the length of his stride.

"Do you want to sit up front with me or in the back?" The Monk goes.

"There's a telly in there, drinks cabinet?" and Ronan's rubbing his hands together, going, "If it's all the same with you, Gerry, I think I'll sit up front with you, " and he climbs in, then turns around to me and goes, "Get in here, Rosser, there's three seats, " and so I do.

The Monk asks where we want to go first and, without even thinking about it, Ronan goes, "Wanderer's Rugby Club - it's on Ailesbury Road, " and I have to say, roysh, I haven't a bog why he wants to go there. It's only when we're pulling into the cor pork that I remember that Shane Danaher, the Wanderers prop, has a saucepan, I think called Ollie, who's Ronan's main rival for the out-half position on the Castlerock Junior team. A little prick, by all accounts. In the distance, on the main pitch, I can just about make out Shane, spotting balls for Ollie to put between the posts from a variety of different angles. It's, like, Christmas Eve, for fock's sake. Give the kid a day off and shit?

Ronan goes, "I want to have a quick word in this fella's shelllike, " and The Monk obviously cops what's going on, roysh, because he goes, "Let's get a bit closer, then, " and he drives up onto the grass and across the pitch to the 22-metre line, where little Ollie is lining up a kick, thinking he's Rog himself.

Of course him and his old man stop dead in their tracks when they see the focking limo. Ronan hits the button and the electric window rolls down.

Shane looks in and gives me a nod - he obviously still has a lot of respect for me as a player.

Ronan goes, "Story, Ollie?" and Ollie's like, "Oh, er, hi, Ronan, " obviously, like, stuck for words.

"I just wanted to say I hope you enjoy yisser Christmas, " he goes, "and to say that whoever gets the number 10 shirt, well, there's no hard feelings on my part, " and Ollie's just, like, nodding and looking at his old man, as if to say, what's the Jack here?

"I want you to meet a frend of mine, " he goes. "This is Gerry, " and he points at The Monk, who gives them a little wave and wishes them both a Merry Christmas, which is a nice touch.

"By the way, " Ronan goes, "you're leaning back too far when you address the ball. Just a word from the wise."

And we drive off, leaving them standing there with their mouths open. Then suddenly we're back 21on the road again, with the three of us having this amazing discussion about which of Tony Soprano's capos we like the best. Me and Ro are both huge Paulie fans but The Monk likes Silvio, roysh, presumably because he's loyal and always keeps his Von Trapp shut.

The next stop is Ronan's estate. I always think estates are hilarious names for these shitholes - it must have been the same goy who thought up the name Jobstown. A character, I'd say.

It's amazing, roysh, but everyone around here seems to recognise the cor. Malnourished looking men in hoodies, fat birds in leggings, 15-year-old girls pushing prams - they all stop and stare at it us, roysh, in respect I suppose you'd have to call it, like you would if a funeral car passed by.

So Ronan has the window down again and he's borking out various instructions to people, going, "Oi, leave that alone, " at these two kids who are siphoning petrol out of a Suburu Signet, presumably to sniff. Two other kids go by on a horse - it's like Into The focking West around here - and he goes, "That animal looks tired - give him a break, " and in the rearview I watch them climb down off the horse's back, as we disappear around the corner and I can only imagine what this is doing for Ronan's street cred.

"Would you mind popping into me ma to say hello, " he goes and The Monk's there, "No problem, " because, like I said, roysh, he's actually a really nice goy.

Of course when she meets him, Tina turns into Mrs focking Doyle - will you have a cup of tea?

I've never got a welcome like that. Then she storts cutting tomorrow's turkey and making sandwiches for us.

The focking dirt of the place, though. It's the kind of gaff where you wipe your feet on the way out.

The morning ends with the four of us - we're talking me, Ronan, Tina and The Monk - sitting around the table, eating the sambos, drinking tea and just, like, shooting the breeze. I mention the names of 10 or 15 people I met on a holiday to Playa del Ingles who claimed to be friends - no, personiddle friends - of his but - surprise, surprise - The Monk has never focking heard of any of them.

Ronan asks him does he know The Terminator, a local hood, who Ronan, I suppose you'd have to say, idolises in a major way.

And it's amazing, roysh, because The Monk stops chewing, puts his sandwich down on his plate and goes, "Why do you look up to people like that?" and Ronan's like, "Yeah, I've heard the rumours meself, Gerry - that he's an informer and that. I heard they grilled him like a fooken salmon, but. I suppose you never know what you'd say with a hundred watts in yisser face."

"I don't mean that, " The Monk goes. "Ronan, what do you want to do when you leave school?"

"Honestly?" Ronan goes. He looks at me, then at Tina. "The Bank of Ireland, College Green."

The Monk nods his head, really slowly. Then he goes, "You know there's cleverer ways - legitimate ways - of getting money out of a bank without sticking a gun in some poor teller's face. Smart people take these financial institutions for millions - legally - sitting at their computers at home."

I look at Ronan as if to say, that's exactly what I've been telling you.

Ronan goes, "But, Gerry, I'm underwurdled, through and through." The Monk laughs. So I do. He goes, "Your dad here tells me that you're the smartest kid in your class, " because I did, roysh, when I rang him to make the booking. He's there, "In every subject. Maths, English? So you don't need to go waving guns around, kid. Why would you want to be the next Jesse James when you can be the next Tony O'Reilly?"

It's unbelievable, roysh, I wouldn't have thought the goy was so deep. I certainly wouldn't have thought he'd have heard of Tony O'Reilly, not coming from, let's just say, a rugby background. Ronan's just, like, staring at him, nodding.

The Monk says his goodbyes and I ask him if he could drop me off anywhere near the city centre. "That's the smartest nineyear-old I've ever met, " he goes. "Make sure he stays out of trouble, Ross."

I just shake my head and I go, "His old dear shouldn't be letting him read Paul Williams - that's what has him like that.

Where else would he be getting all that gangster shit? Actually, you can drop me anywhere on the North Circular Road - I'm gonna go and see my old man, " and The Monk goes, "Whereabouts on the North Circular does he live?" and I'm there, "Er? It's actually the Joy, " and he looks at me as if to say, what focking chance does that kid have?

When I go to pay him, roysh, he won't take the sheets off me - he just pushes them back at me and goes, "It's a gift. It was my pleasure, " and I'm just shaking my head, roysh, thinking, now I know what Ronan sees in him.

"Merry Christmas, " he goes.

The old man's is in cracking form. "And the mighty Leinster march on, " he shouts when he sees me coming and of course I'm like, "Shut the fock up, you dickhead, " and he goes, "Sorry, Kicker. Me just jawboning.

Me no wanna take it to the square, " and I just, like, shake my head. I'm there, "How are you in such good form? Do you even know where you are?" and he looks around the visiting room and goes, "Yes, I do, Ross.

Me in the Crossbar Hilton. And that ain't me fronting, man?" I'm like, "Can you just talk focking normal for 10 seconds?" and he goes, "Sorry, Ross, it's having Lex over there as a cellie.

You pick it up. I know where I am alright.

But the people in here - they're a great bunch of chaps. They wouldn't let you stay down in the dumps for long."

I'm there, "You've changed your tune.

You always said that drugs were part of natural selection - that heroin was nature's way of culling the weak from the population, " and he stares off into the distance and goes, "I said a lot of things in my life that I regret, Ross."

"Like 'I do' the day you married that weapon of mass destruction, " I go, quick as a flash.

He doesn't look sad and he doesn't look happy. He just goes, "Yeah, me got the grapes on your mother. Me hear she wearing a sports coat. She got herself a Jody - a Sancho, " and I'm there, "If you mean she's getting poked by somebody who isn't you, I've actually heard that rumour as well, " but there's, like, no reaction from him.

He doesn't seem to actually give a fock?

The next thing, roysh, this tall, really, like, malnournished-looking goy on the far side of the room, stands up and shouts, "Charlie! Twenty-eight, fifteen, toorty-six, " which I recognise straight away as one of Castlerock's famous line-out calls and all of a sudden, roysh, the old man throws an imaginary rugby ball, which this goy jumps four feet in the air to catch.

The entire visiting room bursts into a cheer and then a round of applause. The old man goes, "I've converted them all, Ross. Of course they still like soccer but we watched the Agen game here last weekend. I talked them through the rules and so forth. By the end of the game, there were three hundred inmates going back to the cells, chanting Denis Hickie's name. Can you believe that?"

I laugh. I'm actually really beginning to like this goy and I focking hate myself for it.

"Here, " I go, and I push a little package across the table to him. He looks around to see the if screws are watching, then he peels off the Christmas wrapping paper.

I mean, it's only a cigar.

He closes his eyes and sniffs it and goes, "Ahhh! One of my Pre Embargo Cubans, " and I nod. Twenty-five Ks for a box of twenty, he paid. "I know you were keeping them for a special occasion but I just thought?" I look around. I can't, like, finish my sentence.

"I shall smoke it tomorrow night, " he goes. "This has made my Christmas, Kicker."

I wish him a Merry Christmas and get the fock out of there before I stort crying like a focking bird. I ask one of the screws to call me a Jo, which he does, roysh, and as we cross the Liffey, I stort to relax and I'm thinking what a weird Christmas Eve this is turning out to be.

That's when I get a text from, like, Jonny Cassidy, who was on the Ireland under-19 team with me - he's, like, Clongowes but he's still sound - and who's working these days in Maxwell Motors.

Anyway, roysh, his text is just like, "Ross im in work, get ur orse here now, " and, without having a bog why, I tell the driver to drop me off in Blackrock.

I'm not actually ready for the scene that greets me when I walk into the showroom.

My old dear and some other old biddy have been having a scrap in the middle of the floor. I know this because they both have a grip on each other's hair and five or six members of staff are trying to prise the two of them aport, roysh, with no success.

I just wade in there, of course, grab the old dear's two little fingers and bend them right back until I hear them crack and she let's go, howling with the focking pain.

The staff drag them a safe distance away from each other. I look at them both. I have to say, roysh, I barely recognise the old dear. She's been botoxed so much, she's practically wearing her orse as a hat.

The other old dear has scratch morks on her face. I recognise her. Her son, Barry, was on the same Clongowes team as Jonny.

Her husband's, like, a consultant in Blackrock Clinic. I'm there, "So, is anyone going to tell me what the fock this is about?"

When neither of them answers, Jonny goes, "They were fighting over who's going to get the first 07 D BMW X5 with satellite navigation, " and I swear to God, roysh, I'm pretty much speechless.

At the mention of satellite navigation, the old dear looks like she wants to go at it again, but Jonny has a good hold of her. He was a good second row in his day.

I look at her and I'm like, "You're a focking disgrace, you know that? You've lost all focking respect for yourself, " and she's absolutely focking bulling, roysh. She goes, "What do you care?" She absolutely spits it at me.

She's there, "You've never had any respect for me anyway, " and, quick as a flash, I go, "That's because you're a focking trout, " and all of a sudden, roysh, this voice behind me goes, "Don't speak to your mother like that." I spin around, roysh, and who is it only her agent, this prick with a pony tail, called Lance.

I'm there, "What's it to you?" and, though he doesn't answer, roysh, he doesn't have to.

I know immediately.

I look at the old dear and I just shake my head. Jonny goes, "Look, it's Christmas Eve.

If everyone leaves now, I won't call the police."

I just, like, stare Lance out of it, then I sort of, like, flick my thumb in my old dear's direction and I go, "Put a focking muzzle on that, will you?"

Then I go, "Oh, and a Merry focking Christmas to you all, " and then I stort heading for Newtownpork Avenue. My phone beeps again. It's a text from Tina.

She's really worried about Ronan. He's been in his room all afternoon reading his school books. She's wondering is he one of them homaseckshuddles.

I'm thinking, what a weird day. What a weird year.