Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘Did you hear that, Shadden? George Clooney is one of Hennessy’s neighbours!’

The waiter goes, “And how would Sir like his steak cooked?”

The old man’s there, “As the lion said when asked the same question – roar!”

We're sitting in Shanahan's on the Green – we're talking me and the old man, we're talking Ronan and his girlfriend Shadden – and we're, like, celebrating my son's Leaving Cert results?

To tell you the truth, I'm only here to stop my old man getting inside Ronan's head. His first two choices on his CAO application form were Social Studies in Trinity and Law in UCD. At the moment he's torn between becoming a social worker, helping the needy and the vulnerable, or a solicitor, helping some of his favourite gangland figures to escape justice and hold on to the proceeds of their crimes. It's a real fork in the road moment for him and I don't want my old man, like, influencing him either way?

“It’s entirely up to you,” he goes, “and I’m not going to attempt to sway your decision, Ronan. All I will say is that I’m happy that one of the options you’re considering is a career in law. You’ve got that kind of brain, you see. Like your father there. We O’Carroll-Kellys have always been able to see things from a different angle. Like, for instance, a STOP sign painted on the road. From one angle it says STOP – but from another angle, it says d o perpendicular S.”

“Yeah,” I go, “if you’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“All you have to do is put a doubt in the jury’s mind, Ross.”

"Well, you didn't. You were banned from driving for three years. And anyway, I thought we were going to let Ronan make up his own mind. He might decide he wants to be a social worker – helping people and actually contributing something to society?"

The old man is such a last-word freak. “Lawyers help people, too,” he goes. “I got my licence back after 12 months on appeal.”

Ronan laughs. “Ine grateful to yous for taking an intordest,” he goes. “But whether Ine gonna be a lawyer or a soshiddle woorker, I just want to say thanks to yous all for yisser support while I was stoodying for the Leaben Ceert – especially Shadden here.”

The old man raises his glass and goes, “I’ll toast that, Ronan! Congratulations on your results, whatever path you decide to take!”

I can’t argue with that, so I don’t bother.

And it’s at that exact moment that my old man jumps up from the table. “Good Lord!” he goes. “What a coincidence! Look who just so happens to have walked through the door!”

And I know, without even turning around in my seat, that it’s Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara, his crooked lawyer.

“Sorry I’m late,” the dude goes.

The old man laughs. He’s like, “Late? No, this meeting is purely happenstance, old bean – remember?”

I just shake my head. What chance have they got of fooling a jury if they can’t fool me?

“Won’t you join us?” the old man goes, pulling a chair out for him. “We’re celebrating Ronan’s Leaving Cert results. He got five As, if you don’t mind! Well, there’s no real surprise there! He’s got what’s known as a questing intellect – much like his father!”

Hennessy looks at me without responding either way. He knows I’m thick as shit.

“So what are you going to do?” Hennessy goes.

Ronan’s like, “Eeder law or soshiddle stoodies.”

“Social studies?” Hennessy goes. “What’s that, like homeopathy?”

He seems to genuinely mean it.

The old man’s there, “Ross and I had an agreement, old scout, not to try to influence Ronan. It’s his decision and his decision alone. And Shadden’s, naturally. By the way, you look very tanned, Hennessy. Have you been away?”

Hennessy's like, "Just back from Italy. "

“How wonderful!” the old man goes, then he looks at Ronan and he’s like, “Hennessy has a summer house on Lake Como!”

“Really?” Ronan goes. “Ah, feer fooks, Hennessy.”

“Of course, he calls it a summer house – that’s just Hennessy being modest. It’s nearly the size of the bloody well Shelbourne! Has its own private pier and everything. Show him the photographs, Hennessy.”

Straight away I know what’s going on here, but I’m pretty much powerless to stop it. Hennessy whips out his phone and hands it across the table to Ro, who storts flicking through his photographs, his mouth opening wider with every swipe.

“Moy Jaysus!” he goes.

I’m there, “Bear in mind, Ro, that there are probably a lot of social workers living on Lake Como as well in equally nice houses.”

Hennessy goes, "If there are, I've never met one. I've met George Clooney, though. He lives just up the road."

The old man goes, “Did you hear that, Shadden? George Clooney is one of Hennessy’s neighbours!”

Suddenly, she's looking over Ronan's shoulder, her eyes out on literally stalks.

“Look at the size of he’s gayums room!” Ronan goes. “Fuddle-sized snooker table and everything, look.”

“Yes,” the old man goes, “the law’s been good to you, hasn’t it, Hennessy? That’s why I’m so glad it’s one of the career paths you’re considering – along with that other thing.”

“Social studies,” I go, trying to make it still sound sexy.

“Yes,” the old man goes, “whatever that even is.”

I end up actually losing it. I'm there, "Can I just point out, Ronan – again, not trying to sway you either way – but Hennessy here is basically a gangster. That gaff of his, everything he owns in fact, is built on the back of, like, criminality?"

“Well,” the old man goes, “it’s a wonderful thing to have options. When do you have to decide Ronan?”

Ro’s like, “Two weeks.”

The old man goes, “Hang on, I’ve just had an idea!” He’s such a bad actor. “Why don’t you and Shadden take a week in Lake Como to make up your mind? Hennessy, you’d lend them the place, wouldn’t you?”

Hennessy produces the keys. He hands them across the table to Ronan, whose face lights up. Shadden’s face also lights up. The old man goes, “I can book you on a flight first thing Monday morning.”

And in that moment, I realise that I’ve lost my son to the dork side.