Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: Ronan is a Republican? He’s got the names of the 1915 crew tattooed on his orm

Claire from Bray of all places says the miniature Scotch eggs are – oh my God – divine? Sorcha says the secret is to fold some Worcestershire sauce and Tabasco into the pork mince before deep-frying the things in 100 per cent corn oil.

Claire from Bray of all places is like, “One hundred per cent?”

Sorcha’s there, “Oh, you’ll get it in any Donnybrook Fair, Claire. The Happy Pear should have it as well.”

Amie with an ie looks the most upset I’ve seen her since the time she got off with what she thought was a member of the Irish rugby team but turned out to be a member of the Irish lacrosse team. She’s even dressed in – I s**t you not – black.

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She goes, “This is affecting me way more than I thought it. It just seems like – oh my God – no time ago since we were all gathered here for Harry’s wedding to Meghan. Now we’re about to watch him, like, literally bury his grandmother.”

Chloe’s there, “It’d be nice to think that this is the event that brings them all back together again – as, like, a family.”

Sorcha’s like, “I think that’s definitely what the queen would have wanted,” and I end up bursting out laughing – no choice in the matter, even though it earns me a serious filthy from every single woman in the room.

“Nobody listen to him,” Sorcha goes. “Chloe, have a Welsh rarebit bite. That’s actual Gorwydd Caerphilly I’ve used.”

I’m there, “I’m just making the point, Sorcha, that you’re all grieving like you actually knew the woman.”

She goes, “This coming from the man who had a nervous breakdown when Ian Madigan left Leinster.”

“I had an anxiety attack, Sorcha – big difference.”

All of a sudden, Ronan is shouting through the letter box at me. He’s going, ‘Rosser, what are you doing joost stanton theer? Will you open the Jaysus door?’

“He was porked on the Taney Road, Chloe. He wouldn’t drive under the William Dorgan Bridge. I had to go and get him. He was crying his eyes out.”

“I was a mentor to the dude. I wasn’t sure if Bordeaux was a good fit for him.”

“Then we met him at Bruno Mors in the 3Arena and he hadn’t a clue who Ross even was!”

“Yeah, no, that’s just because he was seeing me out of context – in other words, without a rugby ball in my hand?”

“That’s so funny!” Claire from Bray of all places goes. “He couldn’t drive under the William Dorgan Bridge!”

I’m there, “I’m just making the point that this is all a bit OTT – as in, she wasn’t even our queen? At least Ian Madigan was our 10,” and I realise I’m going to have to be careful here because I can hear my voice go all wobbly.

Sorcha goes, “We’re not saying that she was our queen, Ross. We’re just celebrating her as an amazing, amazing person and also a historical figure.”

Chloe goes, “She was, like, my queen? As in, I was actually born in England, even though we moved to Ireland when I was, like, three months old. Hang on, is Guernsey in England?”

“I’ll google it,” Claire from Bray of all places goes.

Amie with an ie is like, “My dad is English. Which makes me – I want to say – twenty-five per cent English?”

“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “I’m so sorry for your loss – even though I actually envy you today, if that makes sense? Sophie, have a miniature toad in the hole.”

All of a sudden, the front doorbell rings and I’m actually relieved to get out of the room and away from the madness, even for 30 seconds. I’m making my way towards the front door when Honor shouts down the stairs, “That’ll be Ronan!”

I freeze. I’m like, “Ronan? The fock is he doing here?”

She goes, “Er, I invited him?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s my brother. And because I’m doing an essay for school on, like, whether or not we’ll ever have a united Ireland and I asked him to help me with it.”

“Jesus, Honor, they’re watching the queen’s funeral in the living room!”

“So?”

“So, Ronan is a – what’s the word – Republican? As in, he’s got the names of the whole crew from 1915–”

“1916.”

“–tattooed on his upper orm. Oh my God, you asked him out here on purpose, didn’t you?”

“You’re married to a focking sap,” she goes. “Seriously, the woman is an embarrassment.”

All of a sudden, Ronan is shouting through the letter box at me. He’s going, “Rosser, what are you doing joost stanton theer? Will you open the Jaysus door?”

He pushes the door and walks in on what looks like a, basically, wake. He sees the bunting. He sees the UK-themed nibbles. He ends up going into just, like, shock. His lip is just quivering

I end up doing what he says – although I don’t actually invite him in?

He’s there, “What in the name of God is going on arowunt hee-or Rosser?”

I’m like, “Er, in terms of?”

“There’s red, white and blue bunting up and dowun the bleaten road.”

“It’s Killiney – like I always say to you.”

“Your next-door neighbour is flying a Union Jack at half-mast in the geerden.”

“The people around here have their own ways, Ro.”

“Doorty West Brit bastoords. Thee’d want to learn their histoddy.”

“Their what?”

“Their histoddy.”

“One more time?”

“Histoddy, Rosser. Or go and lib in England if thee lub it so much.”

“Good point.”

“Why are you wearing a cardboard crown, Rosser?”

S**t – Sorcha insisted on them. I quickly whip it off.

I’m there, “I just, er, put it on for a laugh. Listen, Ro, I hate to be rude, but now is not a good time.”

Honor appears in the hallway behind me. She reefs the door open and goes, “Ronan!” shouldering me aside with an ease that would break the hort of anyone who saw me play back in the day, then gives her brother a big hug. “Thanks for coming! I think we’ll work on my essay in the living room if that’s okay?”

I follow the two of them down the hallway, going, “Ronan, maybe come back tomorrow.”

But it’s too late. He pushes the door and walks in on what looks like a, basically, wake. He sees the bunting. He sees the UK-themed nibbles. He sees the crowns and Sorcha’s platinum jubilee t-shirt with “Let the Porty Be Gin” on the front of it and he ends up going into just, like, shock. His lip is just quivering – like me on the Taney Road that famous day, except he’s wearing more than just his boxer shorts.

A united Ireland, I think? We can’t even unite Dublin.

“Ronan!” Sorcha goes. “Perfect timing! I was about to serve the traybake!”