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"I've been avoiding calling you!" the old man goes. "Feared that you and I would get sucked into another one of our famous political contretemps vis-a-vis the merits or otherwise of Mr Joseph Robinette Biden jnr! As I said to Hennessy last night, I wonder will we ever see in our lifetime an American president who thinks the poetry of Seamus Heaney is just okay?"
I'm like, "Dude, I'm busy," because I'm writing my Ireland XV to face England at Twickenham into my famous Tactics Book.
"Do you think you could switch on the camera on your computer?" he goes, because – yeah, no – I forgot to mention that it's, like, a Zoom call?
I’m there, “I can’t. I’ve got my top off.”
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“Why on Earth have you got your top off?” he goes.
"Er, because I do all my best thinking with my top off? Plus, I was doing sit-ups, thinking about what I was going to tell individual players when I have to break the news to them that they're dropped."
“You know, Kicker, I think you’ve put more time into coaching that team over the years than Messrs Farrell, Schmidt and Kidney combined!”
“It’s ridiculous that they’ve never found a place for me within the set-up.”
"Well, anyway Ross, your mother and I have some news! Could you go and round up Sorcha and young Honor and the chaps? And obviously Ronan – he is still living with you, isn't he?"
I’m like, “Yeah, he’s still here alright.”
So – yeah, no – I go and call them. Sorcha brings the boys up to the living room. Ronan trots in, going, “Story, Rosser?” but there’s still no sign of Honor. I shout up the stairs.
I’m like, “Honor, your Granddad’s on Zoom!”
She goes, “I’m focking busy.”
I’m there, “I think he wants to talk to us about his will!” and she suddenly comes flying down the stairs like a baby grand.
Sorcha has switched on the camera, as has the old man, because him and the old dear are on the screen, sitting side by side, like an ancient Philip Schofield and a s**t-faced Holly Willoughby.
“Can you hear us?” the old dear goes, like we’re Ground Control and she’s orbiting the Earth in a focking rocket. “Are we coming through loud and clear?”
I’m there, “Yeah, we could probably hear your voice even without the laptops, you drunken devil-frog.”
“Why has Ross got his top off?” she goes.
The old man’s there, “He was doing some of his famous thinking.”
"He doesn't still do that, does he?"
“Apparently so. How are you, Sorcha?”
Sorcha's like, "I'm fine, Chorles. You heard about our fire last week in the kitchen. Thankfully, no one was hurt and none of the Eggersmann units were damaged."
I’m there, “I put it out with the fire extinguisher – hero of the hour and blah, blah, blah.”
The old dear goes, "And what about you, Honor? Still tormenting them on that Dalkey Open Forum?"
"I've storted a rumour," Honor goes, "that Matt Damon wants to build an eight-bedroom house on Coliemore road, blocking about 50 people's view of the sea. I just want him to see what people from Dalkey are really like?"
“That’s wonderful!” the old man goes.
I'm there, "Sorry, can we get on with whatever the fock this is about? I've got an Ireland team to pick?"
“Well,” the old man goes, acting all coy, “your mother and I are getting married!”
I’m there, “Married? To who?”
“To each other, of course!”
“Don’t take that tone with me. Two weeks ago, you were bumping uglies with Sorcha’s old dear and your fiancee there was giving daily cordio to Sorcha’s old man.”
“Well,” the old dear goes, “let’s just say that our romantic adventures over the past few months have reminded us both how lucky we are to have each other – no offence, Sorcha.”
Sorcha’s like, “Oh my God, none taken! As a matter of fact, I think one day we’ll look back on what happened and realise that it was a sort of, like, pandemic-related madness that overtook everyone and we’ll all be like, ‘Oh! My God!’”
“Let’s hope so!” the old man goes. “Fionnuala and I are very much in love again! And, having reflected on it over the course of the past few months, I have decided to accept her marriage proposal made on the 29th of February, Year of Our Lord, two thousand and twenty!”
Ronan goes, “Ah, feer fooks, Cheerdie. Feer fooks, Fidooda.”
And Honor's like, "Oh my God, when is it happening? As in, actually?"
“It’s going to be a summer wedding,” the old dear goes. “Next July, Dorling. Plenty of time for us all to get this vaccine they’re talking about – and for you to lose a bit of weight, Ross.”
I’m there, “Excuse me?”
"Yes, it's going to be the social event of 2021!"
The old man goes, “All of which brings me, Kicker, on to the issue of who my best man is going to be!”
I’m there, “Er, I was your best man when you married Helen, remember?”
“Yes – and a wonderful speech you made, Ross!”
“Hey, it was just a generic one I downloaded off the internet. I thought you copped that when I accidentally read out all the instructions like, ‘leave pause for laughter’.”
“I just presumed that was port of the joke!”
“No, unfortunately, I really am that thick. Anyway, the answer is no.”
“No?”
“As in, I don’t want to be your best man again.”
He clears his throat in a sort of, like, embarrassed way?
“Actually,” he goes, “I was going to ask young Ronan if he’d do the honours this time!”
Ro’s like, “Are you seerdious, Cheerdie?” delighted with himself.
I’m there, “Have you any idea how hurtful that is to me?”
The old man goes, “I thought you didn’t want to do it, Kicker?”
“I’d still like to be asked – even if it is just so I can tell you to shove it up your orse.”
“In that case,” he goes, “Ross, would you do me the honour of being my best man?”
I’m like, “No, shove it up your orse.”
He's there, "What about you, Ronan? Would you do me the honour of being my best man?"
I’m like, “And bear in mind, Ro, you’re very much his second choice here.”
And Ronan goes, “Cheerdie, I’d lubben to.”