Shop alarms wailing. Burning cors. And that was just, like, Westmoreland Street.

See, we had to have one or two straighteners in the Westin before we dared cross the focking bridge, we're talking me, Oisinn, Fionn and Grannuaile, my new gumar. A serious looker but stupid as shit.

Ordinarily, I'd have brought Sorcha, roysh, but I didn't because a) someone's going to have to bring up our daughter in the event of my death this afternoon, and b) I've spent two weeks trying to pick Grannuaile's lock - and I've always found a Wilson Pickett to a Six Nations match is pure gelignite.

Plus, Sorcha wasn't exactly John B on going. I was seriously hanging when she told me but I think she said she was doing some, I don't know, relief work or some shit with her cousin, Barbara, who, like Sorcha, is one of life's good Samaritans, second year law in DBS and - since you're asking - uglier than a hatful of arseholes.

Get this - Grannuaile is wearing a pink strappy top, mini skirt and Uggs. It's like she only knows it's February from the knees down.

The rest of her thinks she's off to Puerto Banus.

"At least her brains will be warm, " Oisinn goes, pointing down to her feet as she disappears off to the jacks and of course we all crack our holes laughing at that.

When she comes back, roysh, we send her out into the street to hail us a Jo and - fair focks to her - she ends up getting us one of those little minibuses. So we tell the driver where we're going, roysh, then we lie down on the floor and pray silently to ourselves.

"Foorst time?" the driver goes, meaning, is this yisser first time on the Northside, and I go, "No, we played Skerries in the Senior Cup once. I have to say, I was kacking it that day, but not as much as I am at this moment?" and Oisinn holds his finger up to his lips and goes, "Save your oxygen, Ross, " which is good advice, roysh, because we're going to be breathing in smoke and brick dust all afternoon.

When we get out, we have to walk down this street of tiny little houses, where poor people actually live, then suddenly we're in the stadium, roysh, and our hort rates stort to return to normal.

Inside, it's like a focking war movie. Everywhere, roysh, there's people I recognise, sharing their horror stories and showing off their wounds but high-fiving each other out of pure happiness at having actually made it.

We head for our seats, roysh, and we get our first proper look at Crock Park. "So, this is it, " Fionn goes. "What did Tom McGurk call it? A symbol of the new, modern Ireland, " and quick as a flash I go, "Yeah - it's only three-quarters finished and there's nowhere to focking park, " which earns me a high-five from the goys and a blank look from Grannuaile, who, as I told you, is slower than Mass.

We're watching the two teams line up for the anthems and on the big screen you can see, roysh, that the French players are shitting it.

I'm like, "Look at Chabal! The bus driver must have taken them around Ballybough three or four times to soften them up!"

Oisinn goes, "They say Serge Betsen has a thousand scars on his back - but I wouldn't say he's ever been this scared in his life, " and suddenly we're thinking, yeah, maybe playing in a war zone has its, like, advantages and shit?

I can't remember when I noticed something was wrong with Grannuaile. I think it was just after 'Ireland's Call', when I turned around to her and told her to go and get hot dogs for me and the goys, roysh, and actually one for herself if she fancied it.

And of course there's no focking response, roysh, she's just, like, staring into space. Fionn turned to me and went, "Ross, there's something NQR about that girl, " and he sort of, like, waves his hand in front of her face a couple of times and it's like, nobody home.

I'm there, "Hey, don't sweat it.

She's still trying to work out that symbol-of-modern-Ireland gag I cracked." So the next thing, roysh, this total focking busy body turns around and goes, "She's probably suffering from exposure. How could you let her go out like that?"

and he gives me a filthy, roysh, like I made her dress up as a focking lapdancer for the day.

"Bring her down to the first aid centre, " someone else goes. We're actually gathering a fair bit of attention because Grannuaile has turned pretty much blue.

I'm like, "HELLO? The game's about to stort, " but suddenly there's, like, 20 or 30 people shouting at me, calling me all the selfish fockers under the sun and I turn to Oisinn and Fionn - my socalled mates - for back-up but they both look at me as if to say, this is your shit, dude.

So of course I end up having to help her to her feet, roysh, and I turn around to the crowd and I go, "I wouldn't mind, I'm only seeing her a couple of weeks, " and being basically too nice for my own good I take her down to the Order of Malta station and end up totally missing the stort of the game.

The first aid centre has to be seen to be believed. It's like a focking battlefield hospital. There must be, like, a hundred people in there, getting patched up and shit.

I'm shocked to see One F, lying on a hospital trolley, just, like, babbling to himself. The Stor sent him in a chopper and someone tried to shoot it down over a place called Phibsboro. "It was just like My Lai, " he's going, over and over.

But that's nothing compared to the shock I'm about to get.

Because there, 10 feet away in her old Order of Malta uniform, is Sorcha and I suddenly remember this is the relief work she was banging on about.

I decide to front it out.

Sorcha's looking at Grannuaile, then at me, as if to say, who the fock is she, Ross?

I go, "I just found her wandering around outside, totally bewildered, " and of course that just melts Sorcha's hort. She's going, "Oh my God, Ross, you are SUCH an amazing person?" and I just shrug my shoulders as if to say, that's hordly news to me.

There's a bloke standing there as well and I turn around to Sorcha and go, "You haven't introduced me to this goy, " and Sorcha's there, "Ross, that's Barbara, " and I'm like, "Oops, sorry, Barbara - didn't recognise you with your hair that short."

But Barbara's not bothered, roysh, she's just gone, "Looks like another case of trauma to me, " and she grabs Grannuaile's orm and storts leading her to a bed.

Of course Grannuaile's going, "No! Not without my boyfriend!"

and I turn to Sorcha and I go, "Whoa! Nutty as squirrel shit! It's the morphine drip for her."

Sorcha kisses me and tells me I never cease to surprise her. I hear a roar from the stand. Someone's obviously scored a try. Us or them?

"I better go, " I tell Sorcha, staring off into the distance a bit heroically it has to be said. "There might be more people out there who need me."