All of us . . . we're talking me, we're talking Oisinn, we're talking Fionn . . . have copped the crazy look in his eyes lately. Every time you ring the focker, he's in Veritas. And none of us has actually seen him smile since that time the pope ripped the piss out of that whole Muslim crowd and they ended up going totally apeshit as usual.

The word is he was focked out of mass last weekend for heckling the priest. Simon's old dear . . . as in Simon who used to be on the S with us . . . spent an hour outside trying to calm him down.

So Friday evening, roysh, I get on the M50, hit Maynooth and tell him, no arguments, he's coming to Kiely's with me. And I'm pretty happy when he agrees, roysh, because the one thing he needs at this moment in time is, like, the support of his mates.

"Have you gone focking chicken oriental?" I go to him as we're queuing up for the toll bridge. Of course, he looks at me like he hasn't a bog. I'm there, "I'm talking about last Sunday? Bad enough that you were actually at mass . . .

it's your job; I understand . . . but being focked out? Have you lost the actual plot?"

He doesn't bat an eyelid, just goes, "I was removed from my place of worship by some modern day pharisees because, rather inconveniently, my views conflicted with the new orthodoxy."

"You were shouting 'fornication' according to Simon, " I go. "Dude, it's okay to shout that in Club 92, but not in church. I mean, why am I even telling you your business?"

He hands me change for the toll.

Then he goes, "Condoms for Africa . . . that's what the sermon was about." He turns and he looks at me. "It's in the wind, Ross. The Vatican is about to abandon one of its most sacred principles, ostensibly on health grounds but, if you ask me, it's to get hip and down with the young people."

What are they feeding him out in Maynooth? He sounds 40 years older than he is. I'm tempted to point out, roysh, that he was no stranger to a ribbed tickler himself in his day, but I don't. I change the subject instead.

I go, "You know, I think your old man might have ripped me off . . .

and we're talking in a big-time way? I don't know why I'm even laughing. Sorcha's going to have an actual knicker-fit when she finds out there's a hole in our current account a hundred Ks wide. . ."

He sort of, like, snorts at me, then goes, "A man should not speculate unless he is prepared to accept the vagaries of the marketplace, " or, in other words, serves you focking roysh.

I'm not taking that shit. I'm like, "Hey, this is my marriage, Dude, " and he goes, "Ross, a home is the most sacred tabernacle of the Lord. How arrogant of you to think of it that it can be traded for profit, like a lamb or an ox. . ."

I'm there, "A lamb or an ox?

Fock's sake, JP, why don't you just grow a beard and stort wearing robes?" but instead of going, sorry, I don't know what came over me, I'd want to seriously cop myself on or else I'm going to end up losing some seriously good mates, including you, he ends up going:

"He will not enjoy the streams, the rivers flowing with honey and cream. What he toiled for he must give back uneaten, he will not enjoy the profit from his trading.

For he has oppressed the poor and left them destitute; he has seized houses he did not build. . ."

So I'm there, "Okay, remind me who it was again who first called Ranelagh 'Dublin 4W', " but even that doesn't shut him up. He storts giving it, "Surely he will have no respite from his craving; he cannot save himself by his treasure.

Nothing is left for him to devour;

his prosperity will not endure. In the midst of his plenty, distress will overtake him; the full force of misery will come upon himf" until I eventually have to go, "I swear to fock, JP, I'm going to put you out of the actual cor if you keep this shit up. . ."

That manages to shut him up.

After 20 minutes of, like, total silence, I'm the one who, I don't know, extends the olive branch, if that's the exact phrase, by saying that Denis Hickie's playing the rugby of his life at the moment for Leinster. Hickie's his focking hero.

"It's like I've always said, " he goes, "form is temporary . . . class is permanent, " which may or may not be from the Bible.

Then we settle into this little debate, I suppose you could call it, about who should or shouldn't be in the team for the Six Nations.

And I'm thinking, this is more like the old JP. Wait'll I get him into Kielys. Get a couple of Baileys into him and I might end up getting a focking smile out of him before the night's much older.

Of course he can't hold it together for that long. We get close . . . a couple of hundred yords away from the front door of the real K Club. But we have to pass through Donnybrook first and this, like, feeling of dread hits me as I watch the first girl clip-clop out of the Shell in six-inch heels and a skirt that wouldn't hold your snot if you sneezed into it.

It's focking Wesley night.

We're porked at the lights, roysh, and JP's drinking in the scene, revving up for one of his big rants, just trying to find the right quote from the Old Testament.

In the time it's taken for the lights to go from red to, like, green, the street is full of, like, 15- and 16year-old birds, dressed like focking lap-dancers. It's like being down the docks when a ship pulls in.

After what can only be described as a low rumble, JP goes, "Lasciviousness, licentiousness, lustf These things are not of the Lord, " and I end up hitting the old brake and screeching to a halt outside the Douglas Food Company, roysh, and this total focking weapon in a Touareg behind me beeps me and I end up having to give her the finger.

I reach across JP, open the door and I go, "Get out, " which he does . . .

slowly. I go, "Dude, you're losing it.

You need to get your shit together, " and, after a quick wheel spin, I'm suddenly watching one of my best friends . . . but, it as to be said, a crazy focker . . . disappear in my rear-view.