Fock me, her old man is even wetter than she is and I wouldn't have thought that was possible.

He's like, "Vera and I decided to host the dinner in the afternoon, so that we'd all be gathered together at the precise time, 1:52pm, that Granuaile came into the world . . . kicking and screamingf" Haw haw haw. Cue the fake laughter.

It's focking obvious what he's going to say next as well. He's like, "Vera and I often say, she started as she meant to go on" The girl wouldn't kick shit off her own doorstep.

We're in, like, Silver's, the restaurant in Leopardstown Racecourse. I'm at, like, the family table. It's like, what the fock is going on there? I've met this bird, what, once? It's definitely, like, one of those I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here moments.

Her friends aren't exactly John B on me either. Sarah . . . her really, really, really best friend . . . knows all about my rep, being a sister of Kate Janus, who I had a bit of a thing with a few years back until she made the mistake of reading one or two of my texts and, well, you know how that one ends.

She's making it pretty obvious that she hates my actual guts.

Granuaile's old dear, though, can't get enough of me . . . I'm actually good with mothers . . . until Ian, the eldest son, tells her that I'm married, roysh, soon-to-be divorced and suddenly whenever I open my Von Trapp, she has a face on her like an unmade bed.

Obviously, no one has, like, communicated this news to the old man, because halfway through his speech, which seems to last every bit as long as the labour he was talking about earlier, he goes, "Granuaile continues to bring us joy in every shape and size, from her recent promotion to Team Leader in Canada Life, to her very charming new boyfriendf" Boyfriend? What is it with these people?

"Now, many of you will know, " he goes, "all about Granuaile's love of horses. From the age of six, she badgered me to buy her a pony and, well, we all know how difficult it is to say no to her."

More laughter. Do they even know this girl?

He goes, "Now, Granuaile, your mother and I wanted to get you something very special for your 21st. So, if you'd just take a look out of that window behind mef" Her hands go up to her face, roysh, and her old man has to grab her and lead her over the window, which overlooks the parade ring.

He goes, "That chestnut onef" and Granuaile's suddenly giving it, "Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!" using her hand to sort of, like, fan her face. "That chestnut one, " he goes, "walking around there, in your favourite colour . . .

pink . . . he's called Mr Darcy and if you check the racecard in today's Irish Times, you'll see who the new owner is."

Everyone storts clapping, roysh, and they all rush to the window for a George Hook. Granuaile just, like, bursts into tears. This is focking sadder than the Thursday night movie on TV3. Something with Lindsay Lohan in it.

The old man's going, "Mr Darcy is running in the 3:10 this afternoon . . . and, like you, Granuaile, he's the favouritef" I actually think I'm going to vom.

I turn around to Sarah . . . see, it's nice to be nice . . . and I go, "Why Mr Darcy? Presumably it's, like, Gordon, is it? You wouldn't believe the number of times I cleaned that focker out when we were at school, " and she looks at me, roysh, and shakes her head, like I'm the thick one, and she goes, "Pride and Prejudice happens to be her favourite film, " and I'm just like, whatever.

When the excitement dies down, I settle into some serious drinking, making light work of a bottle-and-a-half of red. Granuaile keeps mentioning that it's, like, the best day of her life and whenever she says it she keeps looking at me.

The next thing, roysh, a stone hits the window behind us. Then another one, a bigger one this time. Then another. I'm surprised the third one doesn't actually break it. One of Granuaile's uncles . . . I think he's a teacher in, like, Gonzaga, the poor focker . . . he gets up and goes to the window and all of a sudden he's like, "Good God.

It's a little chap . . . in a camel hair coat. And a hat, " and suddenly I'm the one who's jumping and racing to the window.

It's Ronan.

"Rosser, " he shouts up at me.

"Monta fook, " and he sort of, like, gestures to me to get out out of there.

"Who is it?" Granuaile's old dear goes and I have to say, roysh, I'm so proud to be able to turn around and go, "It's my actual son, " and I stand up to go.

Her mouth drops and she looks at everyone around the table.

Then she's like, "A son? Oh, I'm not sure I approve of that, " and I go, "Nobody's looking for your approval, you crabby-faced, menopausal focker, " and there's just, like, gasps from every corner of the room.

Granuaile's got tears in her eyes, roysh, and she's looking at me for an explanation. The only thing I can think of to say is, "You're holding four aces, baby . . . and you play your hand like you've got two fives. I can't tell you how unattractive that isf" And I walk out of there, roysh, with my head in the air, with a hundred-and-whatever people calling me every name under the focking sun . . . and it's like when I walked up the steps to lift the Leinster Schools Senior Cup in 1999. Halfway across the floor, I actually stop and put my collar up.

I go downstairs and go outside to Ronan. He's storted smoking cigarillos, I notice.

I'm like, "Hey, " and straight away he goes, "I think I might have been a bit hard on you, " and I'm like, "Hey, it's cool, " because it feels a bit, I don't know, awkward listening to him apologise.

"You and Sorcha, that's yisser own business, " he goes. "I want us to go back to the way we were, " and I'm just like, "Shut up. . . Just shut up. You had me at monta fook, " and the two of us crack up laughing.

He storts walking in the direction of the main stand and I follow him and I'm going, "Hey, why are you actually here, anyway?"

"But of business, " he goes, tapping his nose. "I'm here wih the boys, " and even from this distance I can pick out Nudger, Gull and Buckets of Blood in the crowd. You don't see many Shamrock Rovers shirts at Leopardstown. I'm like, "Hey, goys?" which Ronan seems to find hilarious, for some reason.

Nudger and Gull just nod hellos at me and Buckets of Blood goes, "Alreet, storee, man?" which is working class for hello.

I'm like, "Kool and the Gang, my friend. So what's, er, going downf" and Ronan looks at the other three, silently checking whether they think I can be trusted, then he goes, "Let's just say we've an interest in the 3:10f" It takes a good 30 seconds for it to, like, register? Then I'm like, "The 3:10? That's the one that Granuaile's horse is running in.

He's, like, the favouritef" Ronan's there, "Not anymore, he's not, " and the other three sort of, like, snigger to themselves. He winks at me. Then he goes, "Do yourself a favour, Rosser . . .

whatever you've got in your pockets, bang it on Spaced Cowboy. You'll get him at 8-1."

I'm there, "Spaced Cowboy . . .

and notMr Dorcy?"

He goes, "I have a feeling in me waters that Mr Darcy's going to disappoint his connections today, what, boys? Might be something he ate."