Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: When she was born, the midwife smacked her orse and Sorcha fake-smiled her back

The function room above The Broken Arms is packed to the gills for Ronan and Shadden’s engagement porty. There must be, like, 200 people in the room and there’s a really nice atmos about the place.

Ronan’s criminal mates are mixing freely with the two or three community gardaí who tried to take Ronan under their wings over the years. I even hear the famous Gull tell Gorda Ivor: “Ine fully behind yous feddas looking for more dough – yous hab a veddy heerd job, so you do.”

And I can't help but smile to myself. According to Ro, there's been a bench warrant out for Gull's arrest for the past two years. Tomorrow, Ivor and his crew will be back knocking down doors, looking for him. But tonight, there's, like, a ceasefire. Because Ronan Masters has got engaged.

“Are you habben a good noyt?” I hear a voice go. I turn my head and it’s the man himself.

I’m like, “Yeah, no, the time of my life, Ro. I’ve eaten more frozen food in the last hour than an Eskimo family would eat in a year.”

Ronan laughs and slaps me on the back. “You’re a teddible snob,” he goes.

"Inuit," Sorcha suddenly goes. She's got a face on her – yeah, no, that face.

I’m like, “Sorry?”

“It’s not cool to say Eskimo,” she goes. “The word is Inuit,” but she’s not looking at me when she says it – she’s glowering at poor Ronan.

“Actually,” Ronan goes, “it’s Inuit or Yupik, depending on whedder the natives you’re referding to are Alaskan, Canadian or Rushidden.”

Then off he goes. I turn around to Sorcha and I’m like, “Why are you giving him a hord time?”

She goes, “I hate knowing that he cheated on Shadden. I hate having to stand here and watch that lovely, lovely girl sleepwalk her way into a marriage that’s like my marriage.”

“That’s horsh, Sorcha. We don’t know if Ronan is as big a filthbag as me. He said that girl in UCD was a one-off, a mistake, and we have to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

But even as I’m saying it, I notice him smiling at this pretty lounge girl with red hair as he takes a chicken goujon in breadcrumbs from her tray, then she smiles back at him as he dips it in her ketchup bowl.

Shadden arrives over with Dordeen and Kennet. “Th… Th… Th… There thee are,” Kennet goes. “The in-laws, wha?”

It has to be said, for a girl who hates carrying around the burden of Ronan’s secret, Sorcha puts on a good act. But then she’s a true south Dublin girl. When she was born, the midwife smacked her orse and Sorcha fake-smiled her back. That’s called proof of life on our side of the city.

“Let me see the ring!” she goes, grinning like a monkey trying to pass a laundry ball through its urinary tract. “Oh my God, it’s beautiful!”

I’m there, “I’m presuming it’s going to be a long engagement – what with Ro still having four years of his degree to do. Then possibly a masters and hopefully a PhD.”

Kennet goes, “Waste of bleaten toyum. Sh… Sh… Should be out eerding a wage, stead of sitting arowunt alt day with he’s nose in a buke. It’s not normal.”

Dordeen’s there, “I was saying to Ronan this morden, ‘Me and Shadden’s fadder, we habn’t a single qualification between us,’” and me and Sorcha stare at her for a good 20 seconds, waiting to find out what this might be evidence of.

Eventually, I go, “Is that sentence finished, Dordeen?”

She goes, “Yeah, it’s fidished. What Ine saying is that Shadden’s not gonna spend the next howebber many years of her life waiting arowunt for him to fidish school.”

I’m there, “He’s only 19 years old.”

Kennet goes, “He’s engayuched to be m… m… m… maddied, Rosser. Needs to be out woorken, not wasting he’s toyum st… st… st… studying. Unibersity of life – it’s where you get the only degree that’s woort habben.”

I literally can’t listen to any more of this – I can’t pretend like Sorcha can pretend – so I excuse myself and walk away. Up at the bor, I end up running into Ronan’s friend Buckets of Blood. He’s like, “Alreet, Rosser – pint, is it?”

I’m there, “Yeah, no, pint, definitely.”

Then he goes, “What’s he playing at, Rosser?”

I’m there, “What?”

“Getting maddied, I mean – what’s the huddy?”

“I don’t know. It’s the old story, Buckets. Boy meets girl. Girl gets the wrong end of the stick and thinks Boy just proposed to her. Boy buys her an engagement ring so as not to hurt her feelings. Boy and Girl get married. Boy spends the next 60 years of his life basically dying from the inside out.”

Okay, I might make this my last drink of the night.

Buckets goes, “Won’t last 60 years.”

I’m there, “Why do you say that?”

“Won’t last foyuv. He’s mooben on, Rosser – leaven us behoyunt, feer balls to him. Ine saying it for years: ‘You’ve brains to burden, Ronan – go to college. You’ve a chaddence to make something of your life.’ Him and Shadden hab nothing in cobbon any mower – except a kid.”

Buckets is one of my favourite people in the world. He's very like me, in fact – he can be accidentally deep sometimes?

He goes, “Plus…”

I’m like, “What?”

“You know what Ine gonna say. He’s a doorty dog – like he’s fadder.”

“Thanks, Buckets.”

“I’ve seen the way boords look at him. I’ve seen the way he looks at boords. He’s not ready to be maddied, Rosser. And it’s up to you to talk him ourrof it.”

It’s a bad state of affairs. But I need a slash, so I excuse myself again, then head for the jacks. On the way there, I pass a little storeroom. Through the half-open door, I can hear the familiar sounds of grunting and moaning, compliments uttered and promises made. And I can’t help myself. I have to see who it is, so I push the door open an inch or two more and I catch sight of a girl’s red hair and a boy’s bare orse and a table rocking. And I know, without needing to see any more, that the orse is the orse of my son.