Ross O’Carroll Kelly: “A lot of children are just born that way – they’re d**kheads.”

I need a new set of wheels. I’m not saying the Lambo hasn’t been good to me, but I’m moving into that age bracket now where a cool cor storts to look like a middle-aged cry for help – and that could seriously affect my ability to attract girls in their early 20s.

So I go where I always go whenever I need new motorized transport: to see my old man.

Helen answers the door, gives me a big hello – she’s a major fan, always has been – and asks me how we’re getting on with our Chinese exchange student.

I’m like, “Pang? She’s about eight times worse than Honor. The only good thing I’ll say about her is that she’s helped me realise that the way children turn out has very little to do with how they’re raised. A lot of them are just born that way – they’re dickheads.”

Helen nods as she takes this in.

“Well,” she goes, “your father will be delighted to see you,” but then, as I step into the hallway, she cops the cor brochures under my orm and I notice a subtle change in her expression that seems to say, ‘Oh, he’s only here to put the squeeze on Charles again.’

Hey, I could have just phoned him and told him to transfer the money to my account like normal people. At least he’s getting some quality time out of me.

"He's in the study," she goes, "with Hennessy. "

I get the whiff of XO fumes before I even push the door. I find the two of them standing over the boardroom table, looking at what appears to be a series of, like, maps?

They seem definitely shocked when they look up to see me basically standing there. "Kicker!" the old man goes. "How are you feeling about Sunday's game?"

I’m there, “I’m not here to give you my analysis. I need a new cor.”

He puts his orm around my shoulder and goes, “Your godfather and I are a little busy at the moment – perhaps we’ll talk about it in a day or two,” and, as he’s saying this, he’s sort of, like, steering me out of the office.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Hennessy trying to turn all the maps over.

I’m like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa – what are you two up to?”

He goes, "Business, Ross. It's nothing for you to worry your head about. I thought your pal Madigan was immense when he came on against France – reminds me so much of you in your prime."

I shake myself free and I head over to the table, then I stort turning over the maps, one by one. I’m just, like, staring at them, although it’s all just lines and squiggles and circles and squares to me.

Behind me, I hear the old man sigh and go, “You know what we have to do here, Hennessy, don’t you?”

Hennessy’s there, “Sure, Charlie. What do you want to do with the body?”

My godfather, can I just remind you?

“Slight case of crossed wires,” the old man goes. “I was going to suggest telling the chap the truth.”

I’m still staring at the maps, trying to figure them out. Then, all of a sudden, certain words stort leaping out at me. Prison yord. Borbed wire. Gord tower.

“It’s too dangerous,” Hennessy goes. “I say we tell him nothing.”

I'm like, "There's no need to tell me. I've figured it out for myself … You're going to break David Drumm out, aren't you?"

Hennessy goes, “Yeah, that’s it, you got us – keep that to yourself, mind.”

Except the old man’s there, “No, Hennessy, it’s think it would be safer all round if we invited him into the circle of trust.”

I’m like, “You might as well tell me. There’s a 90 per cent chance I won’t have a clue what you’re talking about anyway.”

The old man takes a deep breath, then he spills everything – except obviously the humungous brandy he pours himself first. “Hennessy and I are tendering for the right to build and operate Ireland’s first ever private prison,” he goes. “It’s part of a Government plan – which is to remain secret until after the general election – to jail people for non-payment of water charges.”

As you can imagine, my jaw is literally on the floor. “Water chorges?” I go. “I never heard anything about water chorges.”

Hennessy’s laugh seems to say, ‘I can’t believe I thought we had to kill this idiot to keep him quiet.’

The old man goes, “Up until now, the Government has adopted a softly-softly approach on the issue of non-payment – like I said, there’s an election to win. But once it’s over, well, there’s to be a crackdown. Legislation and so forth. Non-payers will be imprisoned in an enormous, purpose-built, privately run Bastille, which your godfather and I are proposing to build on some land I own in the mid-west – Cloughjordan, to be precise!”

I end up just shaking my head. I’m like, “You two – are going to run a prison?”

“If our tender is successful, yes.”

“This is going to be hilarious.”

“But you need to understand the sensitivity of this information, Ross. It wouldn’t do for the leader of New Republic, a political party that has adopted a wait-and-see approach on the issue of water charges, to be seen to be profiting from the imprisonment of non-payers. The optics wouldn’t be good. We have an election to fight, too.”

He suddenly looks even more shifty.

“I would especially appreciate it,” he goes, “if this information did not reach the ears of the New Republic candidate for Dublin Bay South.”

I end up just laughing in his face. He’s asking me to keep something that serious from my wife. And you can see my dilemma, I’m sure.

Do I ask him for the BMW 6 Series coupé or the 7 Series saloon?

ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE