‘Mixed mortial orts? For the first time in my life, I suddenly feel like I’ve failed as a father’

So I’m showing three couples a house in Stoneybosher and I’m driving along the quays, practicing my spiel for them: “A great opportunity for a plumbing, plastering and roofing enthusiast at the heart of Dublin’s very own Notting Hill!”

I’ve just crossed over whatever that bridge is called, not far from the Four Courts, when I suddenly spot a familiar figure, checking himself out in the window of a solicitor’s practice on Blackhall Place. I’m like, “Ronan!”

He turns around and he cops me. Except I end up having to do an actual double take when I notice what he’s wearing – we’re talking a powder blue suit. He looks like he’s also had his hair cut, or at the very least combed.

I’m there, “I didn’t know you were in court this morning. You should have said something.”

It shows you how much faith I have in my first-born.

He laughs. He’s there, “Ine not in cowurt, you doorty looken doort boord. Ine in thraining.”

He storts walking towards the cor.

I’m there, “Training?” and I’m hit by this sudden sense of dread.

I suddenly notice that his hair is long on top, except shaved at the sides and the back – not unlike Ian Madigan's. And he's got a few wispy hairs on his chin that, if allowed to grow unchecked for another six or seven months, may eventually resemble Gordon D'Orcy's beard. But somehow I already know that it's not rugby training he's talking about?

I'm there, "Ro, what have you got yourself involved in?" I'm talking to him through the window on the driver's side?

He goes, “Ine doing mixed meertial eerts, Rosser,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I’m like, “mixed mortial orts? Okay, you’re ripping the piss now.”

He goes, “Ine not, Rosser. Ine in the gym this morden – it’s up above Beergintowun.”

I'm there, "Up above Borgaintown? God, I'd nearly prefer if you were in court."

For the first time in my life, I suddenly feel like I've failed as a father. When he was focked out of Manchester United, I should have been on it like Dubbonnet. I should have been in his ear straight away, telling him that his future was in the beautiful game. I'm there, "Ro, it's not too late for me to put your name down for Clontorf. I could ask Cian Healy to bring you out there – show you the facilities. I'm a hero to him."

He goes, “Don’t be giving me bleaten rubby, Rosser. This is a real man’s gayum. Here, look at this,” and he suddenly makes a fist out of his right hand. Except, roysh, his little finger is sticking out of it at a whatever-degree angle. I end up having to turn my head away for fear of spewing my breakfast.

“Oh my God,” I go, “that’s disgusting!”

He laughs. He’s there, “I broke it, Rosser – pucking the lug off some sham in the gym the utter week.”

“Pucking the lug?” I go. “God, you sound like – what’s his name?”

His face lights up. He’s like, “Are you talking about Codor McGregor?” taking it as an actual compliment. “Sure, that’s who Ine modelling meself on, Rosser.”

I’m there, “I never would have known.”

He goes, “Ine a good-looking fedda – almost too good-looking – but Ine also a killing machine. Ine whopping ass and Ine collecting cheques. And pucking the lug off shams.”

I’m there, “Where did you get the suit?” even though I can probably guess.

"Offa Louis Copeland, " he goes.

I’m like, “Yeah, no, I thought as much. Me and Louis will be having words next time I see him in Dundrum.”

Ronan suddenly launches into a spiel of his own then.

He’s there, “I look damn good, but – there’s no denying that, Rosser. Ine a freak of nature. You step into the octagon with me, you better make sure you’ve had yisser dinner. Ine pretty. I’ve got the complexion and I’ve got the connections. Ine gonna shake up the wurdled. And if any sham gets in me way, I’ll rip he’s lower leg off and batter him into a toorty-year coma with he’s own bleaten foot. That’s authomathic – one thing foddows the utter.”

I'm just there, "I blame myself. I just figured, after the whole soccer thing, if I left you alone for the summer, you'd maybe watch one or two Rugby World Cup matches with me and the goys in K Town, then me and you would end up throwing the old Gilbert to each other in the gorden and you'd tell me that you'd realised that egg-chucking was the game for you all along."

He’s hunkered down now and he’s checking out his reflection in my wing mirror. “I know you’re upset,” he goes, grabbing handfuls of his facial hair, willing it to grow.

I’m like, “I’m not upset, Ro. What kind of father would I be if I got upset because my son is following his dream? I’m just very, very, very disappointed in you.”

He stands up again and he nods like he understands.

I’m there, “Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m showing a house up in The Bosher at eleven.”

“Here,” he goes, “what are you doing two weeks on Toorsday, Rosser?”

I’m there, “I don’t know – why?”

He goes, “Ine habbin me foorst ebber fight – it’s in the car peerk of the Broken Arms in Finglas. Some sham is about to get the lug pucked off him. I’d luven if you were there.”

I just shake my head.

“Ro,” I go, “of course I’m going to be there. Just because I disapprove of what you’re doing, it doesn’t mean I won’t be supporting you every step of the way.”

He’s delighted. We get on like you wouldn’t believe. He’s there, “Thanks, Rosser. When I win the wurdled title, Ine gonna dedicate it to you.”

And I’m like, “Hopefully, it’ll never come to that. I’m still hoping it’s a phase and you’ll drop this nonsense when you go back to school in September.”

He laughs. He goes, “I doatunt think Castlerock are gonna take me back, Rosser,” and, as he’s saying it, he storts unbuttoning his shirt. He suddenly pulls it open to reveal – oh my literally God – a massive Conor McGregor-style tattoo across his chest. “Not since I got this little beauty done.”