"Oh, calmer now, " he goes. "The doctor gave him something - valium or one of those, " and he opens the door wide and lets me in. "How did you know?" he goes.

I'm like, "How did I know? I was at the match. I'm sitting there watching Shaggy make shit of the Edinburgh defence, thinking this goy reminds me of myself in prime, when all of a sudden there's JP morching across the field with his banner. What is Luke 12:15 anyway?"

"Does it matter?" his old man goes, and then he shakes his head and he's there, "Ah, something about greed."

I can't help but laugh. "Some focking tackle by big Reggie, all the same, wasn't it? I never saw a player bring JP down like that, " and he laughs as well and goes, "There you are - what more proof do you need that something's wrong?"

I'm like, "Can I see him?" and he takes a deep breath, then breathes out again and goes, "You're not bringing him any? religious paraphernalia, are you? A Bible, for instance. The doctor said?" and I'm like, "How would I get my hands on something like that?

Look, I don't believe in focking about with things we don't understand, " and I hold out my orms, roysh, basically telling him to, like, frisk me if he doesn't believe me.

"Okay, " he goes and I tip up the stairs and find JP in his old bedroom, lying there in, like, total dorkness.

"I'll tell you something, " I go, just as, like, an ice-breaker? "Reggie Corrigan wouldn't have got within an ass's roar of the old JP."

And out of the dorkness, I hear him go, "The guy hits like a tank, Ross. I wouldn't mind but I was planning to make my entrance in the first half, when he wasn't even on the pitch."

I'm like, "What stopped you then?" and he laughs and goes, "I was enjoying the rugby too much.

Horgan, D'Arcy, Contepomi - when those boys are on form, they could distract Moses from going about God's work, " and I'm like, "Amen to that, " because I think it's the kind of thing he wants to hear.

There's this, like, awkward silence between us, then I go, "I'm worried about you, Dude. It's like you've lost the plot or some shit, " but he doesn't answer and we sit there in silence for, like, 10 or 15 minutes.

I get up, walk across to the window and pull the curtain open a couple of inches and the light from outside nearly blinds me.

When my eyes adjust, I notice Kerry Arnold, JP's next door neighbour, who I wouldn't mind tipping my concrete into, putting her gearbag into the boot of her old dear's BMW 318 Ci Coupe. I know goys who've joined Crunch just to stare at her.

"There's a newspaper clipping on that desk over there, " JP goes all of a sudden. "Would you bring it over, " and I root around the desk for a few seconds and find it. He turns on the lamp by his locker, roysh, and I can see that the headline says, "Man, 28, dies in N4 crash, " and I'm like, "Yeah? So what?"

He goes, "Read it, " and I sort of, like, throw my eyes up to heaven and then I read it just to focking humour him. It's like, 28-year-old IT worker? lost control of his car? hit a tree? died instantly? blahdy focking blah.

"I went to the inquest, " JP goes and I look back up at him. "Very few people just lose control of their cars, Ross. The coroner said he probably fell asleep. He was commuting to Dublin from Cloghan every morning. Then driving back in the evening. A fivehour round trip?" I'm like, "Where the fock is Cloghan anyway?" and he goes, "Just outside Mullingar? According to the coroner, falling asleep at the wheel is the new drink-driving - people getting up in the middle of the night to stressful jobs, then driving home in the dark. We've all known the feeling, haven't we - when the eyes close for just a split second.

Frightening?" I'm there, "Hang on a sec - why do you give a fock about this dead goy anyway."

"Because, " he goes, "I sold him his house."

I'm just, like, stunned into silence. I wouldn't know what to say even if I could talk.

JP goes, "I told him, Ross.

Commutable distance to Dublin, I said. So you tell me - have I not blood on my hands? Two thousand euros was my commission from that sale. He had a wife and a little girl. Three years old?" I end up totally losing it. I'm like, "JP, will you focking stop!"

knowing in my hort of horts, roysh, that I must have told the same lie a hundred times when I worked for his old man.

"So this is what's been eating you, " I go. "Basically guilt over some goy you probably only met two or three times. Dude, he bought the gaff. You didn't force him."

He's there, "In such a short period of time, we've become such an acquisitive society - and all at the expense of?" and I decide I'm not letting him get into his stride this time.

I'm there, "There doesn't always have to be a focking moral to a story. Everything doesn't come back to the Celtic Tiger, which is where you're going with this, I know? Sometimes the moral of the story is just, basically, shit happens?" "Thank you, St Thomas Aquinas, " he goes, which is obviously a Maynooth thing.

I stand up and I'm like, "Look, I'll call in again tomorrow. See how you are, " and suddenly, roysh, he's giving me the cow eyes and for the first time I notice that he's sweating like a Munster fan in Slapper's.

He goes, "Would you mind just?" and I hold my hands up and I'm like, "No! Don't even ask it?" He tries to push 50 bills into my hand and he's going, "Just two books. You'll get them in Veritas.

Please, Ross. If You Want To Walk On Water You've Got To Get Out Of The Boat and Insights Of The Psalms?" I'm like, "Dude, no!" and I stand up and walk out of there as he shouts, "Even my King James, Ross. Please!"

But I don't even look back.

There are times when you've got to be tough. There are times - and Reggie Corrigan, one of my alltime heroes, knows this better than anyone - when you just can't take prisoners.