Which is a bit off, roysh, but nothing compared to what I'm about to see. He's wearing that tracksuit he wore when he ran the women's mini-marathon and he's surrounded by 15, maybe 20 other prisoners.

"Here he comes, " he goes when he sees me. "Terribly clever chap - brain like a rugby manual?" I'm looking around and I'm like, "What the fock are you doing?" He goes, "Coaching - I've started a rugby team, Kicker."

I'm like, "You've gone focking chicken oriental this time. Who are you going to play - Alcatraz?"

and he's like, "We're hoping maybe an AIL side. Shannon, maybe. Or Garryowen, " and I'm thinking, yeah, this crowd would feel right at home in Limerick - Europe's biggest open prison.

He walks up to me and goes, "Look at these men, Ross, " and he turns around to this absolute focking monster behind him and he's like, "Eddie, how many cops did it take to bring you in?"

The goy goes, "Eight, " and the old man turns to me and goes, "Eight! With truncheons. Let's not have any false modesty, thank you very much indeed. Can you imagine a front row of our friend here, Lex and A.N. Other?"

He has a point actually.

He goes, "I'd love you to help me coach them, Ross. Me in charge of the forwards, and you the backs, just like Eddie and George in the good old days?"

I look around and I think, even the Dagger couldn't turn this shower into a back-line. I look at them, roysh, huddled together - more meat on a pensioner's leg - and all I can think about is that Famine monument on the way down to the Point.

But for some reason, roysh, the way they're looking at me gets to me. It's like they're waiting for me to talk, to inspire them. And instead of, "Go fock yourself, " I end up going, "Okay."

With a piece of chalk, I draw a big H on the inside of the prison wall and someone - I'm pretty sure it's the one they call Bowie - goes, "Here, we're supposed to be going through that next week - you couldn't make it an X, could you?" and everyone laughs, and I'm thinking, that's the problem with working-class people, they're all too busy trying to be characters to learn anything.

I go, "A rugby team consists of 15 players, " and I flick my thumb towards the other end of the yord, where the old man has his players pushing a scrummaging machine around like it's a focking Subaru Signet.

"We're talking eight forwards, who are working away with Dick Features, and seven backs - you."

I go, "The real work - the pretty stuff - is done by the backs. They're the real heroes of the game. I'm sure you've all heard of Brian O'Driscoll?" It's, like, blank looks all round.

"Ronan O'Gara?"

No.

"What about Gordon D'Arcy - as in the Dorse?"

Nothing.

It really is like another country on this side of the city.

I'm like, "Where I come from, these goys are basically legends, " and then I give them a little smile and go, "And take it from one who knows, these goys get the birds?" They all cheer, roysh, then Bowie turns around to the goy beside him and goes, "Here, Musky, what are you wurked up about - you're not out till 2027!"

I reach into the Leinster gear bag the old man gave me, whip out a rugby ball and the laughter suddenly stops. I go, "This is what we play the game with, " and suddenly, roysh, there's gasps of amazement from everyone and I feel like Indiana Jones waving a shrunken head around in front of a tribe of, I don't know, Africans.

"What? what the fook is it?"

Anto goes, afraid to even look at it for more than a few seconds.

I'm like, "This is a rugby ball."

"Here, Mister, " this little goy called Snail's Pace goes, "yisser ball's after gettin squashed in yisser bag, " and I've just discovered why they call him Snail's Pace. There's one decision made for me - he's scrum-half.

I go, "Okay, goys, your role as backs is to move the actual game forward by kicking the ball, running with it or passing it. And this is where it gets complicated - you can only pass the ball backwards, " and I watch them all struggling with the idea for a few minutes, then I go, "It's not as difficult as it sounds."

Bowie's obviously a natural leader - not unlike yours truly - so I put him in at out-half, with Anto at inside centre and Musky at outside centre. These two brothers, Terry and Liamo Garton, are going to be my two wings, and this little cor thief called Robbie Ryan, whose trial I only read about in the Irish Times last week, is my full-back.

I get them all to stand in, like, a diagonal line, roysh, then I throw Snail's Pace the ball and go, "All you need to do is collect that thing from the forwards and throw it to Bowie there. Now, the rest of you, let's practice passing that along the line while running in the direction of the goal there."

So they try it, roysh, maybe 30 times and each time it's a total disaster. They've no problem running in formation - it's just their handling is hopeless. They keep dropping the ball, like it's a piece of incriminating evidence.

Then all of a sudden, roysh, it's, like, inspiration hits me. I gather them and go, "Goys, let's pretend the ball is something precious you've just, I don't know, shoplifted. A piece of Lladro, maybe. From House of Ireland."

"Mother and Baby, " Musky goes and they all seem to understand that.

I'm like, "Whatever. You've smashed the window and grabbed this expensive piece of porcelain. The security gord is catching up on you - but your mate, to your left, is faster?" I go, "Okay, let's try it again, " and the goys return to their positions.

"Okay, let's go - one, two, THREE?" and Snail's Pace throws the ball to Bowie, who catches it, takes three or four steps and offloads to Anto.

"Mother and Baby, " I shout.

Anto gives it to Musky, who throws it into Terry's orms. He gives it to Robbie, who comes up the left like a focking train.

"Go, Robbie, " I shout. "You're in?" And it's all working until Musky shouts, "Take the fooken point, " and after six or seven steps Robbie kicks the ball high, over the bar - over the wall, in fact - and probably into the focking canal.

"Is he not apposed to bounce it, " Anto goes to me. "Or solo it."

I'm like, "A slight misunderstanding of the rules, " but I say no more, roysh, because what I've just seen - and I'm not exaggerating here - it was like the Castlerock team of 1999.