Tiptoeing out of there the following morning I was pretty sure I'd aggravated an old levatator scapulae injury that I picked up against Michael's a few years ago.

I'm giving it a good old massage while I'm doing the walk of shame back up Torquay Road.

It's, like, half-eight in the morning and there's all these people driving to work, roysh, seeing the old Rossmeister General sloping home with a guilty look on his Ricky Gervais and it's like, uh-oh, he's back. Lock up your really, really good-looking daughters.

I haven't forgotten what day it is today and with that in mind I swing in to Thomas's to pick up a paper. I lash through it to find the sports page, then scan through the squad for the Argentina tour.

I end up nearly dropping the paper on the road when I realise I'm not in it.

It's like, what do I have to do?

I ran into Shaggy coming out of Donnybrook Fair a couple of weeks ago and he said I really needed to send Eddie a message, let him know I'm still alive. I thought I'd actually done that with the Eden Pork modelling campaign.

Look, I'd understand if the dude never goes into the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre.

Being from the sticks, he'd be more of Clerys man . . . and I respect that. But those ads have been running in, like, every paper and magazine in the country.

I think about checking the 'A' squad but then I don't bother my orse. If he thinks I'm playing in the Churchill Cup, he's focking dreaming.

I pick the key in the door, roysh, and it hits me straight away. It's like, whooof! It's an incredible smell. The old dear's cooking at, what, half-eight, quarter-to-nine in the actual morning and not even a fry either, because she's on the Wolfe to Delma, one of her mates from Westwood, going, "Now, for storters it's going to be chilled steamed asparagus with chervil dressing, followed by baked oysters and spinach. I got an absolutely fab-a-luss recipe off the internet, Delma. And then, chocolate-dipped Grand Marnier strawberriesf" I don't know what Delma says back to her, roysh, but the old dear goes, "Well, you know me . . .

I've always been an epicure, " and quick as a flash, roysh, I go, "Is that French for a stupid bitch with a face like a bucket of burnt Lego?" which she pretends not to hear.

"What the fock is all this about?" I go when she finally hangs up the phone. "It's practically the middle of the night and you're up cooking, " and as I'm saying this, roysh, tipping something from each pot onto a plate.

"It's lunch, " she goes and I'm there, "Well, it's breakfast for me, " and it looks amazing, roysh, because in fairness to the stupid wagon she's an incredible cook.

"It looks focking revolting, " I go. "Up to your usual standard."

She's there, "Don't take it all, Ross. It's suppposed to be a special lunch for Lance. He's coming home early today, " and I'm about to ask her, since when has that focker storted calling this home, roysh, when all of a sudden I cop that she's got her Michael Buble CD on.

Now I've had dinner with enough desperate bitches in my time to know what's going down here. We're talking asparagus, we're talking oysters, we're talking spinach, we're talking strawberries . . . not to mention fock-loads of alcohol.

She's obviously got this whole seduction scene planned.

From what I've managed to overhear, Lance has mysteriously lost his mojo since I put bitch spray in the old dear's Chanel No 5 and this is her pathetic effort to, like, put the lead back in his pencil.

I give her the filthiest of filthies, roysh, tell her to act her age . . . 90, by the look of her . . . and I take my plate upstairs to my room. I get stuck into the nosebag while running over the events of last night in my mind.

Fock, I sent a fair few drunk texts to Sorcha, some of them so drunk they fell asleep on the Nitelink and are probably being woken about now by the cleaning staff in Donnybrook Bus Depot.

Pretty sad as well, roysh, because I pretended they were meant for Oisinn. It was all like, "Dude im in d club o love, alva morris all over me, might hav 2 giv her a rattle 2night, " and then I'd accidentally on purpose send it to Sorcha.

Sad, I know.

I eventually nod off, roysh . . .

didn't get a lot of sleep the night before . . . and it's actually my mobile that wakes me up four or five hours later. I check the screen and it's, like, private number and I'm thinking it must be Sorcha ringing from the shop, obviously the jealousy eating her up all morning.

I make the mistake of answering, roysh, and the first thing I hear is two pips and I'm thinking, who the fock do I know who'd actually be using a pay phone?

And then: "Hey, Kickerf" I'm like, "What the fock do you want?"

"Got to be quick, Ross, " he goes. "Not a lot left on this phone card. Just read the team in the Times. Have to say, Eddie's leaving it mighty late to introduce you if he's thinking about using you as back-up for your-friend-and-mine for the World Cup."

I'm there, "Why aren't you in your focking cell?"

"It's rec, " he goes. "We're about to go out to the yard to train. The boys miss you, Ross."

It has to be said, roysh, I miss them as well. "Well, they've you to blame for that, " I go, "you dickhead."

He's like, "Would you not pop in? Take the backs for an hour this afternoon. Bowie's having difficulty passing off his left hand againf" Fock, he really knows what buttons to press with me.

"Forget it, " I go. "It's because of you that I'm practically skint and living here with your stupid wagon of a wife and her, I don't know, lover. With no cor, I might add. I've two grand in my pocket and that's it. You've a cheek trying to play the old pals act with mef" When I hang up, I can hear Michael Buble downstairs in the kitchen. 'How Sweet It Is' at full focking blast. And laughter.

Stupid focking girlie laughter.

The old dear half-cut at, what, two o'clock in the afternoon?

I'll put a stop to her focking gallop. I go into her room, roysh, and drown her pillow in Chanel No 5. In fact, I spray the stuff all over the room, like focking air freshener.

And what a result, roysh, because five minutes later, I hear the two of them coming up the stairs, giggling and going, "Ssshhh!" the way pissed people do, then the bedroom door closing.

But then, roysh, five minutes after that, the door opens again and I hear Lance going, "I'm sorry, Finny, " and he goes downstairs and then a few seconds later I hear the front door close.

I crack my hole laughing. I check the time. It's just after two.

That's, like, nine hours until Club 92 opens again. Can't come too soon either.

I might be mistaken, roysh, but I think one or two of those oysters are storting to kick in.