‘Ronan, I’m still terrified of you being sucked into that world of guns, drugs . . . non-rugby nicknames’

Ronan rings me at some ludicrous hour. I’m like, “Ro, it’s the middle of the night.”

He goes, “It’s eleben o’clock in the morden, Rosser,” which in my world amounts to the same thing.

I’m like, “What kind of a lunatic would ring me at this time on a Saturday?”

He’s there, “Ine outsyut, Rosser. Open the bleaten door, will you?”

Which is what I end up having to do?

“Ine here to talk about the stag,” he goes. And I notice that he’s got a bunch of brochures under his orm.

I have a little chuckle to myself.

I have to say that fortnightly stag porties are one of the things I've missed most about the Celtic Tiger. Jetting off every second week to one of Europe's most beautiful and historic cities, then coming home two days later having only seen its pubs, two-stor hotels and adult cabarets was port of what it meant to be young and Irish in the noughties.

Forget the housing bubble, the return of the stag weekend in Europe will be all the proof we need that the Celtic Phoenix is an actual thing.

“As me best madden,” Ronan goes, “it’s yoo-er job to organize the thrip.”

I’m like, “No problems, Ro – where are you thinking in terms of?”

"Estepona. "

“Estepona? Okay, that sounds made-up.”

“It’s not made-up, Rosser. It’s on the Costa del Soddle.”

“Are you trying to say Costa del Sol?”

“Costa del Soddle – that’s what Ine arthur saying. You fly direct into Madaga.”

Then he hands me the brochures. But they end up not being brochures at all. Instead, it's a file of tabloid newspaper cuttings about the lifestyles of some of Ireland's best-loved criminals who've chosen to make Spain their home.

They’re all in there. The Hedgehog. The Rabbit. The Stoat. The Owl. The Breadman. The Milkman. The Door to Door Salesman. The Axe. The Machete. The Samurai Sword. Mad Eddie. Mad Teddy. Mad Frankie. Mad Johnny. Drunk and Disorderly. Violent Disorder. Grievous Bodily Horm and his teenage son, Actual.

Ronan worships these men like I worshipped the likes of ROG, Shaggy and Drico.

As his best man, it’s my duty to give him the stag he wants. But as a South Dublin father, it’s my responsibility to keep him away from crime of the non-white-collar variety.

I go, “If Spain is definitely your thing, Ro, you should maybe consider Borcelona?”

He’s like, “Where?”

“Borcelona.”

“Are you trying to say Barsiddle Owner?”

"That's what I did say. Borcelona. I've been there three or four times. It's an incredible city, even though I don't know the first thing about it. But I can tell you this, Ro, you haven't seen the real Spain until you've had breakfast with a stripper called Odessa and sampled the local fare – an omelette with actual potatoes in it washed down by a few beers to take the edge off the old self-loathing and paranoia."

“I’ve no inthordest in Barsiddle Owner, Rosser.”

"Well, what about Scotland then? We could go to see that soccer team you love. The Glasgow Celtics. Obviously, I wouldn't go the match. I'd drink in one of the local pubs. But Glasgow is definitely one my favourite cities that I've visited and seen absolutely fock-all of. And you genuinely haven't been on a stag until you've been pumped out in the Glasgow Royal Infirmary."

“No inthordest, Rosser.”

"Or have you thought in terms of an Irish stag? What about Kilkenny? I was at three of four stags in Kilkenny after the recession hit. It's a really, really cosmopolitan town – what my wife would call an ethnic melting pot? We met hens from Liverpool, hens from Manchester, hens from Newcastle, hens from Birmingham. And you genuinely haven't been on a stag until you've been fished out of the River Nore and treated for shock and exposure on its lovely banks."

He goes, “Rosser, Ine not going to Kilkeddy. Ine not going to Glasgow. And Ine not going to Barsiddle Owner. Ine going to Estepona. Enda stordee.”

I decide it’s time for me and Ro to have one of our famous father-son chats.

“Okay,” I go, “I’m going to be honest with you, Ronan, I’m still terrified of you being sucked into that world.”

“What wurdled?”

“The world of guns, drugs . . . non-rugby nicknames.”

“Ine not getting sucked into it, Rosser. I just want to see it.”

"Why do you need to see it? You've got your books, your newspaper cuttings, your Love/Hate box set."

"Cos it's all cubbing to an end, Rosser. They're thalken about cleaning it up – the entire coast. Putting feddas behoyunt bars, seizing all the doorty muddy. A lot of my childhood heerdos are altready retoyerden to Dubai. I just want to see it before it all changes."

I remember Sorcha used to say the same thing about Cuba. The ancient cors. The absence of McDonalds and Storbucks. Everyone smoking and dressing like it's the 1970s. I used to tell her to imagine Skerries on a really hot day. I think that's what helped her get it out of her system.

But Ronan won’t be so easily discouraged.

He's like, "Ditn't you tell me once, Rosser, that evoddy toyum you go to Cardiff, you broyub one of the stewarts to let you on the pitch to kiss the toorf."

"But that's the hallowed turf," I go, "where Johnny Sexton led the comeback against the Northampton Saints, where Ireland beat Wales to win the actual Grand Slam. I'm paying homage to my idols who showed me how my life could have turned out if I hadn't pissed it all up against the wall."

He's like, "Rosser, what Jodenny Sexton and Broyun O'Thriscoll are to you, the likes of The Badger and The Ferret are to me. So we're going to Estepona, Rosser. The May bank hodiday weekend. You, me and forty-seben of me closest associates."