MICKEYMouse goes to court, roysh, looking for a divorce from Minnie.

The judge goes, "I've read through all the relevant paperwork and I've decided I can't grant you this divorce."

Mickey's like, "Why not?"

and the judge is there, "You can't divorce your wife on the grounds that she's got buck teeth." And Mickey goes, "I never said she had buck teeth. I said she was focking Goofy."

This joke has absolutely fock-all to do with this week's column, roysh, except it's what I was texting JP the other night while me and Sorcha were out for an actual meal with all her, like, intellectual mates; we're talking Sophie, Chloe and Amie with an ie. I say intellectual, roysh, but Amie's as thick as bottled shite. And as for Chloe, she was the one who did the 60 Second Quiz and when Larry Gogan said, "Complete this famous boxer's name . . . Sugarf" she said, "Diabetes", the thick bitch.

When I say intellectual, roysh, what I mean is that they're all, like, employed in some capacity or other.

Amie's PR-ing with Browne, Nose and Shmooze, Chloe's morkeshing something or other and Sophie's lecturing in ATIM, where her inability to spell the word business hasn't stopped her from teaching it as an actual subject. And what with Sorcha thinking about expanding the shop in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre, you guess what the vibe was around the table . . . everyone's doing well, except yours truly.

That's why I ended up texting JP, roysh, but when Sorcha sees me it ends up, like, drawing attention to me and shit? She goes, "If you're not going to take part in the conversation, Ross, why don't you just go home?" and quick as a flash I go, "Maybe I've a pain in my towns listening to how well everyone's doing."

Amie with an ie goes, "What are you up to these days, Ross?" and under pressure to say something, roysh, I say, "Chilling, mostly, " to which there's, like, loud guffaws. Sophie goes, "Oh! My! God! Is that, like, a career now?" and Sorcha . . .

my so-called wife . . . goes, "It is, yes. His father pays his mortgage and his son's school fees while Ross sits at home all day having impure thoughts about Jessica Fletcher", and I'm thinking, 'Yep, she knows why we're getting through a box of focking Kleenex a week'.

Jokes aside, roysh, I found this pretty humiliating, so much so that the following morning I was up out of bed before 11 o'clock and . . . believe it or not . . . I was straight on the Wolfe, trying to get myself a job. Not any job, of course, there are limits to what I'll do.

My first port of call was, like, Knob Head, who went, "As it so happens, Kicker, I've just the thing for you. Full stop, new par. Hennessy's decided to run for the presidency. It was me who put the idea in his head, Ross. Just after he was released from prison. An innocent man. Guilty of nothing more than changing his name by deed poll several times, trying to make it in the world of business while banned from being a company director for 20 years and fleeing to Rio de Janeiro to escape Kerrigan and his mob with their questions and their burning torchesf" I'm there, "I said I wanted a job, not focking Ronnie Biggs's life story, " because that's what I call Hennessy, roysh, just to piss him off. He goes, "I'm offering you a job, Ross. After my own admitted success in the local elections, Hennessy's decided to stand against this northern woman on the Oh For Heavens Sake Everyone Was Doing Things That Weren't Exactly Legal In The Seventies And Eighties ticketf" I just hang up on the tool before I stort bleeding out my focking ears. Then I remember, roysh, seeing an ad for one of those recruitment agencies in the paper . . .

as in, thick as you might be, there has to be some focking thing you can do.

So I ring the number, roysh, and I end up getting this bird on the phone who storts running through this list of, like, questions. The first few were easy enough, we're talking name, date of birth, blah blah blah, but then it's suddenly all, like, personal shit, as in, "Education?" I'm there, "Did the Leaving three times."

She's like, "Did you, em, pass it any of those times, " and I go, "I scraped a D in Ort. You know what it's like . . . blow snot on a Corn Flake and you'll still find some focking freak who thinks it's ort.

Listen, babes, let's not get too hung up on the whole qualifications vibe."

She goes, "Of kayf Em, what kind of work were you actually looking for?" and I go, "Glad you asked that.

Something that doesn't have me up too early. And doesn't go on too late. Long lunch.

And decent wonga obviously.

Oh and if it's a place with a lot of good-looking birds on the payroll, hey, so be it." She goes, "I really don't thinkf Look, have you considered maybe skilling up, " and I say "That sounds suspiciously like going back to college to me, so I'm going to have to end this conversation now by hanging up on you, " which I do, roysh, then pretty much curse myself for not trying to get a date with her, because I can tell from her voice, roysh, that she had the bigtime hots for me.

So there I am, roysh, just about to give up on the idea of getting a job when all of a sudden I have a brain wave. I ring my old mate Ryle Nugent, as in JP's cousin, and tell him there's this young, impossibly good-looking goy who was a bit of a schools rugby legend and knows the game inside out who's looking for a job in, like, RTE Sport.

First of all, roysh, he's like, "No can do, Pale Face", but then I remind him how basically I'm a God to the likes of Drico, Rog, Strings and Big Mal and all I have to do, roysh, is give the word and there's no more interviews for him. He's there, "You're blackmailing me, dude?" and I go, "You catch on fastf Pale Face ."

He hums and haws for a few minutes, roysh, then he goes, "Okay. To be honest with you, I do need a reporter for Against The Head, doing player interviews and so forth. This friend of yours, does he have any television experience?" I go, "No, but he watches a lot of it. And he's a quick learner."

Ryle goes, "Okay, babycakes, we'll camera test him in the morning. Can he be out in RTE for nine o'clock?"

and I'm there, "Very unlikely, Ryle. Expect him there about half an hour after Murder She Wrote."