Which is actually unlike me.

Having no cor and being basically potless hasn't exactly helped my mojo either, roysh, which is the reason I decided to bell Ciaran, the dude in Eden Pork, to see what the Jackanory is with this modelling contract.

The thing is, roysh, they've been stringing me along for months now and of course I know what their focking game is. They're still hoping to get what they would see as a bigger name. Hello? Like there isone? So when I ring the shop Tuesday morning, roysh, I'm straight on the attack, giving it, "You've been playing us off each other for months now. You've got to decide once and for all, is it Dorce or me?" and of course Ciaran storts boring the ear off me about projections and cost analysis and other shit that no one understands.

Eventually, roysh, he goes, "Look, I'll call you back, " and it's obvious, roysh, that he rings D'Arcy and that D'Arcy tells him that he's sticking with Magee because within, like, 15 minutes, he's back on, going, "Okay, you've got the contract."

Fifteen grandingtons is all he's offering. Focking pin money. I'm like, "If I was that desperate for 15Ks, I'd have storted an SSIA."

"That's the offer, " he goes, and then he's suddenly like, "Oh, hang on, I think I've got Jamie Heaslip on the other line, " and of course I'm like, "Okay, I'll take it! I'll take it!" An hour later, roysh, he rings me back with the address of this photo studio where I've got to go to get the snaps done. So being the professional that I am, I end up hitting the gym straight away and do a shit load of, like, bench presses, stomach crunches, the lot, basically deciding to put the same hundred per cent into this that I did into my rugby. And it's a good job, roysh, because the photographer turns out to be a) a bird, and b) a total cracker, we're talking Jamie Lynn Discala here and I can tell you she's pretty John B on yours truly as well.

Her eyes go straight to the old bod, roysh, checking out the contours, obviously thinking, I got into photography to try to capture beautiful images on film . . . this is the kind of day I've dreamt of all my life. I put on the various bits and pieces of clobber that Ciaran left there for me. An Argentina rugby shirt that, it has to be said, looks really well on me. Four or five other things that, like, perfectly showcase the work I did in the gym this morning.

And all the time, roysh, I'm giving her . . . Anais, is her name . . .

what would have to be described as loads, hitting her with the magic like Keith Barry.

Eventually, roysh, she goes, "Okay, just pop your clothes on the chair over there, would you?" and I'm thinking, er, I usually have to put in a bit more spadework than this. And she must cop my reaction, roysh, because she goes, "Ciaran wants a couple of shots of you wearing just this, " and she throws me a pink bow tie.

Then she thinks about it and throws me a rugby ball and she's like, "Oh and this, obviously to coverf" and she nods at my youknow-what . . . shlong, in other words. So I whip the old threads off, roysh, and while I'm doing this I'm telling Anais what I'm benchpressing these days, though being careful obviously not to come on too strong.

Anyway, roysh, to cut a long story short, the shoot goes really, really well and I end up leaving there with Anais's phone number.

She didn't give it to me . . . I actually took it out of her bag when she went off to ogle at the photos on screen. I hear fock-all for a couple of days, roysh, then Ciaran rings me on Friday morning, tells me to get my orse into the Powerscourt centre quick. So I head in there in a Jo . . . I know I'm skint but I'd sooner buy a scratch cord than use public transport . . . and the second I walk in through those double doors and up those stairs, roysh, it hits me, like a bucket of water in the face.

Hanging from the ceiling of the shopping centre, there's, like, six or seven humungous posters . . .

we're talking 30 feet high, each one of them . . . of me, standing there, stork bollock naked, except for the tie and obviously the ball. I suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder.

"What do you think?" a voice goes.

I turn around. It's Ciaran.

"What do I think?" I go. "What do I think? It's focking incredible!"

He's there, "Thought you'd like it." I'm like, "Wait'll Dorce sees it . . .

him in his sensible focking suits.

Get a load of those absf" He's there, "I know . . . it's amazing the things you can do with Photoshop."

I whip around and I'm like, "Hey, that's not focking camera tricks, dude. If anyone asks you, they really are that size, okay?"

"Sure, " he goes and we both stand there for, like, 10 minutes, looking up in total awe.

So I'm walking out there, roysh, feeling, well, 30 feet tall. I'm thinking, maybe it's time to stop grieving over the old broken marriage, maybe stort ringing some of the old names in my phonebook, or maybe do what Eddie O'Sullivan's going to do for the summer tour: introduce a few new faces.

I'm thinking, this is actually only the stort of it. Next it'll be that big focking fashion show at the Point.

Mork my words, I'll have my BMW Z4 back by the end of the summer.

So I'm skipping down the steps, roysh, and who do I bump into, crossing the little pedestrian crossing, only Sorcha. I haven't actually seen her sincef. Well, since.

I scan her boat race, trying to, like, anticipate her mood. Hostile, I reckon. I'm like, "Hey, babes . . .

what are you doing here?" and of course that melts the ice.

"HELLO?" she goes. "I work here? As in my shop?"

Fock, I actually forgot.

"How have you been?" I go and she's like, "Fine. You?" and I'm there, "You know me . . . I'm Kool and the Gang, " and I think about mentioning my new career, roysh, but then I think, no, I'll let her see the posters herself, more impact that way.

I decide to push a few buttons, see does she still have, like, any feelings for me. "Have you been following the whole Leinster outhalf situation?" I go. "Gerry Thornley mentioned my name as a possible back-up option for next season. Although it was in the bor in the Berkeley Court that he said it, not in the actual paper."

Sorcha just looks at me, roysh . . .well, more looks throughme . . . and goes, "There was a time when that would have worked. But there's no sweet-talking me around this timef" She can't mean that.

I'm like, "Hey, why don't I call around one night next week? We could open a bottle of wine, maybe watch You've Got Mail. Be like old timesf" but she gets really pissed off at me, roysh, and goes, "Oh my god, Ross, how many times do I have to tell you? I don't ever want to see your face again!"

And off she storms. I watch her go through the doors, roysh . . . she still has the best orse of any bird I've ever been with, Samantha Mumba included . . . then stomp up the steps. When she reaches the top, roysh, she suddenly stops, dead in her tracks, obviously copping the pictures of my ugly mug.

It takes a good minute to sink in, roysh, but then she storts screaming. I haven't heard her this hysterical since the day she found out that the faux fur coat I bought her for her 25th wasn't faux at all.

She's screaming like a focking banshee and all of a sudden, roysh, there's people running out of every shop in the place, to see what's wrong and trying to calm her down. I pull my baseball cap down over my eyes . . . I'm going to have to get used to doing it if I'm going to handle fame . . . and I stort walking back towards Grafton Street.