Ross O'Carroll-Kelly: It’s like if Tarantino directed Wind in the Willows

So here I am, on a Spanish street, watching my teenage son and the wife of one of Ireland’s leading gangland criminals go at it in the back of a Citroën Picasso. He’s taking ages to finish as well – I’m sure he’ll get quicker as he gets older – and I’m looking over my shoulder, terrified that Grievous Bodily Horm is going to walk by any minute on the way back to his aportment.

I'm thinking, why her, Ro? Of all the women in all the bors in Estepona, why did it have to be the wife of a man Spanish police suspect of involvement in as many as nine murders? I stort remembering some of my own escapades? All the beds I hid under. All the bedroom windows I climbed out of. All the conservatory roofs I fell through. The danger of being caught adds excitement to the proceedings. But Ronan is taking it to a whole new level here.

Ronan – I'm trying to thinking of a nice word for it – disemborks from Melissa

Suddenly I hear voices approaching from the other end of the street. It’s not Spanish they’re speaking – it’s English. One of them is going, “Fat Frankie’s dett is godda be slow and payun fuddle.”

It’s Grievous and his son, Actual.

I stort hammering on the window of the cor with the heel of my hand and the animal noises instantly stop. I hear Ronan go, "It's the bleaten Guardia!" and then she's like, "Tell them fook off, Ro."

The window is suddenly wound down. In the back of the Picasso, it’s just a tangle of orms and legs. Ronan’s face pops out from the middle of all this white flesh and he goes, “Ah, it’s oatenly Rosser.”

I’m like, “Grievous is on his way.”

Oh, that shakes the two of them. Ronan – I'm trying to thinking of a nice word for it – disemborks from Melissa, then she goes scrabbling around for her clothes. The two of them are, like, white with fear.

“He’ll kill you,” Melissa goes. “He’ll kill the boat of us.”

Ronan’s trying to do up his shirt buttons but his hands are trembling too much. He’s like, “Rosser, what’ll I do? You’re the man has all the expeerdience. You’re the masther in these situations.”

The cor just coughs and splutters like someone who smokes sixty cigarettes a day – my son, for instance

It’s a lovely thing for me to hear, especially coming from my son.

I'm like, "Melissa, never mind getting dressed. Just stort the cor and get out of here," which is what she tries to do? But as she turns the key, the thing just coughs and splutters like someone who smokes sixty cigarettes a day – my son, for instance – and then it dies. She tries it again but the same thing ends up happening.

“Okay, change of plan,” I go. “Just put your clothes on. I’ll go and stall your husband and son.”

Seriously mullered

Grievous is seriously mullered. He’s telling Actual, “I want the Mole dead. I want the Hedgehog dead. I want the Dormouse dead . . .”

It's like if Quentin Tarantino directed The Wind in the Willows.

He’s there, “And I want the Badger and that little rat friend of his chopped up and dumped in the fooken sea.”

I sidle up to them and I’m like, “Hey, goys – how the hell are you?”

Grievous goes, “Ah, howiya, Rosser? I thought you were going back to yisser apeertment?”

I’m like, “Yeah, no, I thought I’d go for a stroll – take it all in one last time.”

In the background, I can hear the sound of Melissa still trying to stort the Picasso. Actual goes, “Whoebber that is, they’re godda flood the bleaten engine.”

I’m there, “I mean, look around you. It’s true what they say – travel definitely does broaden the mind, doesn’t it? Do you fancy going to a strip club?”

Grievous laughs. I can tell he’s very fond of me. “You bleaten roogby lads,” he goes, “you doatunt know to call it a neet. Unfortunately, we’ve a big day ahead of us tomoddow.”

I feel suddenly bad, thinking about this poor dude who's about to get whiffed

Actual goes, “Seerdiously, that engine is godda be desthroyed. I’ll go and see do they need a push.”

And I'm like, "No, wait!" and I end up basically shouting it? "Yeah, no, what I was going to say was I heard you mention the Badger there. I actually saw him the other day."

This is news to Grievous. He’s got his mouth wide open. He looks at Actual, then back at me. “The Badger?” he goes. “Are you saying he’s back in Estepona?”

I’m like, “Yeah, no, we saw him in the HiperDino, asking if they had any of the-”

“Irish sausages,” Actual goes, finishing my sentence for me. “He caddent lib wirrout them.”

Whiffed

I feel suddenly bad, thinking about this poor dude who’s about to get whiffed, betrayed by my big mouth and his love of a traditional Irish breakfast.

“You’re absolutely shurden it was the Badger?” Grievous goes.

I’m there, “One hundred percent. My son even got him to sign his ‘Big Five’ checklist. Why don’t we go to a strip club to celebrate?”

Then Actual goes, “Hee-or, is that me Ma’s car?” and at the same time he’s squinting his eyes. “It is, Da – it’s the Picasso!”

And I go, “Okay, goys, I’ve got something to tell you. The important thing is that you don’t overreact.”

Suddenly, there's a screech of tyres. Vans stort appearing from everywhere with Policía written on the side

Grievous goes, “She’s apposed to have went howum hours ago,” and then his expression turns suddenly dork. “She’d bethor not be up to her old thricks again. I’ll bleaten . . .”

I’m there, “Like I said, let’s not blow it out of proportion, but what seems to have happened is that . . .”

But I don't get to finish my sentence. Suddenly, there's a screech of tyres. A screech of many tyres. Vans stort appearing from everywhere with Policía written on the side. Men with, like, rifles get out and they stort shouting at us – in Spanish and in English – to lie face down on the road, which is what I do.

I feel a foot on the back of my neck, pressing me to the road. There’s, like, shouting. I can hear Grievous and Actual telling them they’re only a bunch of bleaten poxes as they’re dragged away. Then someone grabs my hair and pulls my head back and I’m suddenly staring into the face of some police dude, who looks at me, then shakes his head and goes, “He is no one,” and then, 10 seconds later, with sirens blazing, they’re gone.