Focking voice message again. It's like, "Hi, this is Shane. Sorry I can't take your call. I'm either at training or shopping for antiques. Either way, leave a message."

God, I hate talking to these machines - oh, sorry, that's Munster I'm thinking of.

I go, "Shaggy, what's the crack?

It's Rosser. Look, I'm just ringing because obviously France is next weekend and you're basically injured, which puts you in a pretty unique position to speak out against what's happening - Croke Pork, blah blah blah.

"I mean, I presume I don't have to tell you how unfair it is that just because Lansdowne is being rebuilt, we have to play all of our matches on foreign soil this year.

"I don't actually mind Cardiff and Edinburgh that much. But Ballybough? I don't know if you've ever been in that port of the world but I can tell you the goys are in for a treat. It's like Carrickstown on methadone?" Oisinn comes back from the jacks. I put my hand over the mouthpiece and go, "I'm just leaving a message for Shaggy, putting the guilts on, hoping he'll persuade the goys not to play?" "Hang up!" Oisinn goes all of a sudden. "Hang up!" which I do, roysh, and then I'm like, "What the fock?" and Oisinn goes, "Shaggy's from Bellewstown, " and I'm like, "Bellewstown?

Where the fock is that?" and he goes, "It's so far northside it's practically in the North Sea.

We're talking Meath here."

I'm like, "Meath? Jesus Christ!

You mean?" and he goes, "Exactly. He's unlikely to be a stranger to Croke Park?" I'm there, "Fock me - never meet your heroes, huh?"

Oisinn gets the round in. Kielys is pretty empty for a Tuesday.

"Roysh, next!"

I scroll down my numbers.

This time the phone doesn't even ring. It just goes straight to the message minder.

It's like, "You're through to the voicemail of? The Ledge, " and I can't believe the focker's ripped that off from me.

I'm like, "Dorce - how the fock are you? It's the Rossmeister General. Hey, I hope you're not still in a snot with me over that night in Reynords - I had no idea she was with you. No hord feelings, blahdy blahdy blah.

"Look, I just wanted to let you know that I still have those, like, boots you gave me? Remember the ones with, like, 'South' and 'Side' on the tongues? I haven't sold them on eBay yet, so if you want them for next weekend, they're yours. Obviously on loan.

"That's presuming you're playing, of course. Actually, if you're not, you're leaving it pretty late in the day to be telling EOS. Maybe if you all, like, refuse to travel at the last minute, they might switch it to Donnybrook?" Oisinn puts a pint in front of me and goes, "Dorce is from Wexford, Ross, " and I cover the old Wolfe Tone and go, "I know, that's why I'm talking slowly?" He's like, "Think about it, Ross.

Wexford! That's beyond the beyonds. It's past even Bray."

I'm like, "You're bullshitting me now, " I suppose not wanting to believe it?

I hang up anyway.

"Face it, " Oisinn goes. "He might have gone to Clongowes, he might be your main rival for the new Eden Pork modelling contract, but the goy's a focking cabbage-muncher."

I end up just losing the plot, roysh. I pretty much stick my finger in his boat race and go, "Say that again and you can consider yourself decked, " and he's like, "Hey, I'm as big a fan of The Gord as you are - but face facts, he's from Wexford. And the number-one sport down there is that, I don't know, stick game.

These people are always in Croke Pork. They're up and down that N11 like farmers on mileage?" "Well at least I'm trying to do something to stop this madness, " I go. "Hey, I know?" His phone rings nine or 10 times - they must be focking training or something - and then it's like, "Hi, this is Brian. I'm not available to, like, take your call, but leave a message and I'll, like, call you back? Later, Dude!"

I'm like, "Dricmeister? It's the Rossmeister. Look, I'm going to give this to you in a nutshell. I porked the cor - as in my BMW Z5 - down by the Point Depot last year, when me and Sorcha went to see Il Divo. When we came out, roysh, one of the locals had broken into it and was in the process of, like, chewing through the focking steering lock.

"And that was only, like, 50 yords over the river. Of course, the further northside you go, the worse it gets. I've got some shit here that I downloaded off the old interweb and it has to be said it makes pretty tough reading.

We're talking prostitution, child slavery, industrial pollution, crack cocaine, school shootings, open sewers, wild dogs, Burberry everywhere. You know, they pulled a three-headed fish out of the Royal Canal last year and now they want you goys to play rugby right next to it. I mean it's not focking safe over there?" Oisinn is, like, gesturing at me to hang up, so I end the call and go, "Don't tell me - Drico's a focking Kerryman now?" and he goes, "Worse. He's from the northside, Ross. A couple of miles from Croke Pork?" I'm like, "No, he's not - he's from Clontorf, " and Oisinn goes, "And where do you think Clontorf is?" and I'm there, "I don't know.

It's full of focking yachts and shit.

I just presumed? Fock, is there anyone we can count on?"

The next thing my phone rings and it's like, private number. I answer it. It's a pretty familiar voice, though I just can't place it.

"Howiya, Ross?"

Actually, it sounds like? "Ross, it's Eddie O'Sullivan.

Listen, boy, the media haven't got a hold of this yet but we've a problem. Rog is injured and we've no cover at 10?" My hort is suddenly beating like a souped-up Ford Mondeo. I push my pint away and I'm like, "Yeah? And?"

"I might need you for the bench, " he goes. "I wanted to check, though. A couple of the boys said you had a problem with going to Croke Park?" I'm like, "You don't want to listen to those goys, Eddie. I'm on the record as saying I'd walk across broken glass to play for my country. Of course, I meant it as a figure of speech, but if I have to do it literally, I will."

He goes, "So you've no problem with going to the northside at all, " and I'm there, "None at all, Eddie. I mean, I presume you'll be providing flak jackets and all that shit?" and the next thing, roysh, I hear all this, like, sniggering on the other end and it's suddenly obvious that it's not Eddie O'Sullivan at all.

Of course Oisinn sees my reaction and thinks it's the funniest thing he's ever seen. I'm like, "I bet you that was Strings.

Any money. That was SO him. Or maybe Frankie Sheahan?"