TOOK over a thousand sheets from the taxpayer this week for doing basically jack shit, roysh, but Ryle's being as nice as pie to me . . .

hasn't asked me to photocopy fock-all . . . ever since he heard me and the goys bought Lillie's. He steps out of line and the dude's orse is so bored it's not funny.

Everyone in town wants to be invited to the big relaunch on Christmas Eve and the tickets are, like, plastic surgeons in the UCD orts blocks . . . basically impossible to get.

So Thursday afternoon, roysh, I knock off work around half-twelve and hit the road straight away, in order to be back in the Margaret to see the lovely Libby with the humungous thrups on the lunchtime episode of Neighbours. Bit of blanket welding in the early afternoon's good for the soul, I always say.

Course Sorcha has to go and spoil the Russell. Her, like, Rav4's in the driveway when I swing in and I'm thinking she must be Moby if she's not in the shop today.

When I go in, roysh, she's sitting on the sofa, orms folded, staring at the wall, face like a focking Doberman eating a curry. I totally misjudge the mood, of course. I'm there, "Hey, babes, what's up? Massacre at the Y?" only realising after I've said it, roysh, that if it is, like, Orts and Crafts Week at Panty Camp, the last thing she's going to want is me cracking jokes about it. I go, "What I mean is, are you, em, sick?"

She stands up and she goes, "Oh, I'm sick, Ross.

OH! MY! GOD! I am, like, SO sick, it's not funny. Sick and tired of you treating me like basically dirt, " and I'm thinking she's definitely seen the six-page spread on me and goys in the new VIP.

'The Darling Buds of Lillie's . . . Meet the New Owners of Dublin's Hottest Nightspot.'

When the bird who interviewed us asked me if there was anyone special in my life, I probably shouldn't have said, "I'm young, free and single, and I just want to mingle, " but I guess I just got carried away and shit.

Turns out, though, it's not that at all. She goes, "In case it's slipped your mind, Ross, you have a son. His name is Ronan and you haven't seen him for weeks. And for your information? He's about to be, like, kicked out of school?"

I'm there, "What for?" but she just, like, slaps the old Wolfe into my hand and goes, "Why don't you act like a parent and find out?"

So I end up dialling the kid's number, and when he answers I go, "What the fock is this about you getting kicked out of Castlerock?"

He goes, "Stall the ball, Rosser, I'm in class, " and then I hear him go . . .

presumably to Anderson, his teacher . . . "I'd better take this call, Sir. It's the Ross lad, " and when he's outside the door, he goes, "Story?"

but I'm, like, too in shock to even remember why I rang.

I go, "You mean Anderson lets you take calls on your mobile in class?" and he's there, "Pete? Ah, sure Pete's game-ball. Play rugby in this school and they love you.

Listen, Sorcha's obviously told you about this bullying shite. Load of me bollicks. I told her not to worry her pretty little head, but she's a darling boord, as me oul grandda would say. There's nothing in it, Rosser."

I'm there, "You've been accused in the wrong?" and it's a good five minutes before he stops laughing.

He's like, "Good one, Rosser.

Nah, truth be told, I slammed this kid in sixth class up against the wall." I go, "Sixth class? Ronan, you're in, like, second?" and he's, "They've all got to pay up, Ross. It was Thursday. He was already a week in arrears. But it's mustard. His oul wan's coming up to the school this afternoon and Fehily wants you there too . . . make it look like the school gives a shit.

I arrive at Castlerock at, like, three, roysh, and Fehily's meeting this kid's old dear first, with me and Ronan waiting outside. I'm just sitting there wondering whether this old dear's, like, a yummy mummy? . . . when Ronan offers me a slug out of his hipflask. I go, "Put it away, Ronan. You're not shocking me, you know, " and he takes a long drink from it and goes, "Swear to Jaysus, this stuff 's making me voice deeper. Fook knows what it's doing to me liver."

Five minutes passes and Fehily calls us in. Is she a yummy mummy? Answer . . .

no, she's a focking swamp donkey. Then I cop her son, roysh. He's, like, six-footfocking-one. Fehily goes, "Now, I've been trying to explain to Mrs Swails here that things can often be. . .

misinterpreted." She does NOT look a happy bunny, whatever's been said. Ronan goes, "Like I said, Father, the kid had a dizzy spell. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck to stop him falling and hurting himself."

Fehily claps his hands and goes, "So that's that then!

Thank you for coming in, Mrs Swails, " but she's not happy. She looks like a dog shitting a peach stone. She goes, "It's because he plays rugby, isn't it? That's why you won't discipline him."

Fehily doesn't answer, roysh, just turns his head towards the window, as if to say, like, conversation over.

She stands up and she goes, "Well, if that's your attitude, I'm taking Timmy out of the school, " and then as she gets up to leave, she goes, "Let's see how the school orchestra survives without its best flautist, hmmm?" and then she focks off and brings the beanpole with her.

Fehily goes, "Well, Ronan, I think that went rather well, " and Ronan high-fives him across the desk and then, like, gets up to go.

Fehily goes, "Thanks for popping by, Ross. Quite a chip off the old block we've got there." I'm just, like, mesmerised. As Ronan's heading back to class, roysh, he turns around and goes, "Oh, and Rosser, stick me down on the guest list for that Christmas Eve party of yours. I'll have about 10 heads with me." All I end up going is, "Kool and the Gang."

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly's fourth book, PS I Scored The Bridesmaids (O'Brien Press) is in all good bookshops now, priced 9.99


GAFFER in Drumcondra goes, "Wots the jack with all these steamers on me savalas these days? im strugglin to have a pedal of an evening."

I'm with you on that. Will and Grace or cookery programmes. If it wasn't for my DVD player, I'd have turned Stoke myself. . .

Gicker goes, "Wots worse to score . . . a skobie, a rocker, a bogger or a pikey?" You presuming I've tried them all? A solicitor's letter is on its way to your gaff, man. . .

Some dude who doesn't give his name goes, "Hey, do u like no where to get fake id's, ther's a load of us headin to usa for xmas, gonna get our nat king. . . in the words of my m8 krissie. .NOICE! !" My mate Oisinn 'bin Laden' Wallace will sort you out.

Write to Tora Bora, Westminster Road, Foxrock, Dublin 18. . .

Bird called Crystal goes, "For ur information, newbridge college is in co. kildare & it is far from bein a bogger school . . . we even wear dubes! we hav every right 2 b in the senior cup, sure didnt we reach the semi's last yr!" You can take the child from the bog. . .

Some . . . presumably . . . bird who doesn't give her name goes, "BT2 FEMALE ASSITANTS R TOLD 2 URN UP IN FUL MAKE-UP. SEXIST R WOT?" I know. Was in there last weekend and thought I'd wandered onto the set of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. . .

The Louth crew from last week were on again giving it, "If u wont com to ardee, at least sort us out with a pic of d girl outta nip/tuck . . . Kelly Carlson. She's the bisexual girls "avour of the month." Bi-? Why didn't you say?

Here's your pic.

Someone get me a map of Louth. . .

Text 087-6564586