'My eyes are drawn to this humungous framed poster of Ro on the wall, done up like Oliver Twist. He's even got the flat cap'

Pimp my own son to sell ketchup? No way - unless the moolah's right, of course

THERE WERE long faces all round in 23 Donnybrook Road on Monday afternoon. The way the goys were throwing it into them, you'd swear the actual world was coming to an end.

The rumours about Hook, Lyon and Sinker must be true, from the way JP's tanning the H. His old man didn't bother his orse opening at all last week, the property morket's that bad. Still, if it gets any worse he can always flog the yacht.

JP's there, "Cowen's got to do something," and it's probably not the most sensitive thing in the world to say, roysh, but I end up going, "I'll be okay. My old man's already told me to keep doing what I'm doing. There's no reason this should affect me. Not with him there to bail me out." "That's it," Fionn goes. "A new one for the lexicon. Cowen needs to Charles O'Carroll-Kelly the banks!" which puts a smile on one or two faces, though not for long.

"The collapse of Western Capitalism," JP goes, "and getting shat on by Munster - some focking weekend, huh?" I'm like, "Dudes, let's get out of here - do what we usually do when we need cheering up." What I mean, obviously, is go to see One F. We pile into an Andy and, before we know it, we're on the M50, telling the driver - mad as it seems - to take the exit for Ballymount.

Most of you probably know One F as the rugby correspondent of the Navvy News. But he's also one of Ireland's cleverest men - especially for someone who went to Rockwell. I know I'm not the only one who regrets not listening to him a couple of years ago, when he told us to read the signs and invest whatever moolah we had in ketchup.

I'm sure I told you his theory - that in times of economic hordship, people stop buying decent meat and stort living on freezer food. I'd like to think we wouldn't all become animals that quickly - but then again, Tony O'Reilly's a billionaire and One F's probably the only businessman in Ireland who's actually hiring at the moment.

The three of us sit in reception. On the wall opposite us, in big, ketchup-coloured letters, are the words Pour Little Rich Kids - the name of the company - and I notice from some of the ads around the place that he's also doing brown sauce now, as well as steak and BBQ, with mustard to come in January and salad cream sometime next spring.

We all just, like, shake our heads. "Rockwell," I go. "Jesus!" One F eventually arrives out, full of the joys, of course. Suit by Hugo Boss, hair by sticking a fork into an electrical socket. Asks us how the hell we are - high-fives all round.

I tell him I'm scared to cash my Irish Timescheque in case the bank bounces.

"What did I tell you?" he goes, sweeping his orm around reception - as if to say, you should have basically invested.

We're all like, "What can we say . . ." So we're shooting the shit, talking mostly about how kack Leinster were last night. I'm standing there, roysh, admiring his framed photographs - him with Cher, Steve van Zandt, Charlie Sheen, the two birds out of Heart - when all of a sudden I hear a voice that stops me dead in my tracks.

"Rosser, you ladyboy!" It could only be . . . my eleven-year-old son.

Of course, straight away, I'm like, "What the hell are you doing here? Don't tell me you put money in."

He's there, "Even better."

One F's suddenly sweating. He's going, "I, em, meant to ring you, Ross - run this past you . . ."

Ro's there, "Derek's asked me to be the face of Pour Little Rich Kids."

I'm like, "The face? As in?" One F goes, "The poster boy, Ross. I mean, take a look at him." I do. And for the first time I notice that he's dressed up like a focking chimney-sweep. "Look at that boat race," he goes. "The innocence of it." Eighteen J-LOs - that's Juvenile Let-Off's to those of you who've never seen the inside of a courtroom - tell a different story.

One F knows I'm Scoobious, roysh, because he puts his orm around my shoulder and leads me into his office. "Let me show you an early proof," he goes.

My eyes are immediately drawn to this humungous framed poster of Ro on the wall, done up like Oliver focking Twist. He's even got the flat cap.

He's holding a fork, roysh, with a sausage on the end and ketchup - guess whose - dripping from it.

The writing says, "Mummy, what's the Celtic Tiger?" and then underneath, "Bad times - but good taste. Pour Little Rich Kids."

I'm like, "No way - I'm not giving my permission for this." Ronan looks at me with the big cow eyes - same as on the poster - and goes, "Derek said this could do for me what Bird's Eye peas did for Patsy Kensit," whatever the fock that means.

I can't look at him. He knows how to get around me, see.

"No," I tell One F, "it's wrong, it's immoral, it's - I don't know - exploitation, if that's even a word?"

"But he's paying me fifty Ks," Ronan goes.

I suddenly freeze. Fifty grandingtons? Storbucks are only paying me twenty - they told me that was the going rate. Jesus, I'm beginning to hate corporations as much as every other rich, 28-year-old southsider I know.

I look at Fionn and JP and, like, shake my head in disappointment. I'm there, "He's asking me to essentially pimp my son out to commercial interests."

"No," One F goes. "I'm asking you to essentially pimp your son out to commercial interests for 20 percent of what I'm paying him." Twenty per cent? I'm insulted.

I'm like, "Where do I sign?"

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