Not even by how much. An hour-and-ahalf, it turns out. And there's me sitting there like a tool.

Oisinn finally comes through the arrivals gate, looking pretty well, it has to be said . . . nice threads, nice Peter Pan. I highfive him, roysh, and I go, "How was Milan. And do not shit me . . .

was that picture of you and Gwen Stefani in VIP real?" And he just laughs, roysh, but he doesn't answer because of course Oisinn's too cool to ever answer.

He tells me he was sorry to hear about me and Sorcha, blahdy blahdy blah, and I tell him news travels fast. "Fionn texted me, " he goes and I just, like, shrug my shoulders. I'm there, "Plenty more fish in the sea.

They're going to have to stort getting used to my ugly mug around Reynords again, huh?"

He just shakes his head and goes, "Are you not upset, Ross? I mean, you have a daughter, " and I'm like, "Who I'll get to see on Sundays. Look, it's for the best.

Let's be honest, roysh, Sorcha could never really cope with going out with someone who's really, really goodlooking . . . we're talking jealousy, blah blah blah. I suppose something had to give in the end."

"Fionn said she caught you in the sack with the nanny, " he goes and he says it, roysh, like he doesn't think it's funny.

I'm like, "Dude, if it hadn't been that it would have been something else, " and he nods like he knows I'm talking out of my orse.

"What do you want to talk to me about that was so urgent?" he goes. "When you said you were coming to the airport to meet me I thought you were going to propose or something, " and straight away, roysh, I'm like, "Er, me, a steamer? I think there's a couple of thousand birds out there who'd contradict you on that one, Oisinn, " and he's like, "Shit the bed, Ross, it was a joke."

We sit down in the seats next to the arrival gate and I go, "Dude, what do you know about bitch spray?" He's like, "Bitch spray? Em. . . It just, like, masks the smell of female dogs when they're in season. Stops them exciting every male dog in the neighbourhood."

"So how does it work?" I go and he's there, "Well, I'm not an expert, Ross, but I think it contains bacteria, which basically consume the microorganisms that create the scent.

Why the interest, dude?"

I'm like, "It's actually for the old dear, " and he goes, "She's getting a dog? Oh no, not one of those little focking yappy things that Mumba has."

I'm there, "No, Oisinn, it's for my old dear. Long story but basically she's storted knobbing her agent. This total tosspot called Lance. Of course I'm back home at the moment and it's a total focking mare. They're, like, all over each other. The noises coming out of her room. . ."

He looks at me like I've just whipped out my shlong and tried to stick it up his nose. "Let me get this straight, " he goes. "You're going to spray your mother with bitch spray?" I'm like, "Yeah. It's either that or get her spayed."

Of course he had to make out like it's such a big focking deal.

"Ross, it's just a bit extreme, isn't it?" he goes. "Could you not just, I don't know, get your own gaff?"

I'm there, "Now who's being extreme? Look, obviously I'm not going to just whip out the can and spray her. No, I was wondering was it possible to maybe put it in her perfume. That way, she sprays herself. And in case you haven't copped it yet, this is actually where you come in."

He goes, "You want me to put bitch spray in your old dear's Chanel No 5?" and then he's like, "Er, no."

I give him one of my serious looks and I go, "Look, I hate to focking pull this on you, dude, but I think you need to remember . . .

you actually owe me and we're talking in a big-time way, " even though I actually hate reminding him that he wouldn't have that Leinster Schools' Cup winners medal hanging around his neck if it wasn't for me.

He knows what I'm talking about without me having to say it, roysh, but he doesn't look a happy camper with me for bringing it up. "Okay, " he goes, giving me a major filthy, "I'll work on something. I'm not even sure if that shit works on humans. Just give me a couple of days, " and he stands up then and he goes, "Okay, where's this lift home you promised me?"

We head for the cor pork and he fills me in on Milan, the Italian launch of Eau d'Affluence and loads of other great shit happening in his life, roysh, and I end up listing off the birds I plan to score now that I'm back in the game again, not that I was ever out of it in the first place.

When we arrive at the cor . . . as in my BMW Z4 . . . there's someone sitting in it. Not, as you'd expect on this side of the city, a skobie with a baseball cap and more gold around his neck than the Lord Mayor of Dublin. It's actually some dude in a tin of fruit. I'm there, "What's the Jackanory?"

He reaches inside his tennis racket, flashes his badge and goes, "Criminal Assets Bureau."

I'm there, "Whatever! What are you doing in my cor?" and he goes, "Your car? The registered owner of this car is a Mr Charles O'Carroll-Kelly, " and I'm like, "Yeah, his name's on the actual logbook but he gave it to me as, like, a birthday present? He's my old man, the stupid penis, " He's like, "I'm sorry, sir. Legally, it belongs to Charles O'CarrollKelly and it's on our inventory."

I can't trust my Jackie Deggs. I feel like I'm about to collapse. He storts the cor using some kind of, like, master key and he next thing I know he's revving my little baby's engine and he's driving her away.

I whip out the old Wolfe and I bell Hennessy. Straight away I'm like, "My cor's just been repossessed . . . what the fock is going on?" and he's there, "Your old man's settled, Ross . . . with CAB and with the Revenue Commissioners. And he did it all over my head, " and then he just hangs up.

Oisinn looks at me and goes, "Looks like we're getting a Jo then."