I was the better tactical kicker, the better place-kicker, the better basically all-round player than Rog – just ask the old man,  writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY

HE’S TALKING to Jack Kyle. The dude’s sitting, like, seven or eight rows behind us but the old man is still talking to him.

“History calling,” he’s going, loud enough for half of Cardiff to hear.

“A date with destiny, full point, new par,” and you can see Jack Kyle thinking, ‘Er, whatever?’

“Oh, I was there in 48,” he tells him, “when we beat this same shower.

“Make no mistake about that. I was still a babe-in-arms of course but my father took me, just as I took this chap here in ’82,” and he tries to get me to stand up then?

I just shake my arm free and tell him to stop making a tit of himself.

You can see practically half the crowd looking at him, thinking, who is this tosser?

“Bears your name, I’m proud to report – Ross Kyle Gibson McBride O’Carroll-Kelly.

“Described by no less a judge than Tony Ward as the best number 10 never to play for Ireland . . . ”

He actually described me as the greatest waste of raw talent he’s seen in a half a century watching rugby, but that’s a whole other scéal.

“And that little chap beside him there is his own boy – you might say the future of Irish rugby . . .”

Someone eventually shouts, “You, in the leprechaun hat – sit the fock down!” which, thankfully, he does. He asks me what he’s missed and I tell him practically the entire first half.

He’s there, “Oh, you know what I’m like when I start discussing the greats.”

“Who was I named after?” Ronan goes and I know exactly what’s he’s thinking, because I follow his line of vision to you-know-who, shaping up to take a penalty on the Welsh 10-metre line.

Of course, the easiest thing to do is to tell him what he wants to hear.

Except it’s, like, complicated between Rog and me? See, a lot of people would be of the opinion that I was the better tactical kicker, the better place-kicker, the better basically all-round player. I just liked the life too much and he ended up getting all the breaks.

He steps up and pulls his kick wide of the post.

“You were named after Ronan Keating,” I go, which is actually true?

“Your mother loved that song Isn’t It A Wonder,” and I look at his little face and, being honest, he’s totally crushed.

But you can’t lie to your kids.

Anyway, where all this is going is, half-time – you know the script – we’re six points down and the old man is telling anyone who’s prepared to listen – as well as quite a few who aren’t – that what Ireland lack is a kicker of the calibre of Stephen Jones and the great crime, for which the IRFU must stand indicted here today, is that they have one, except he’s sitting here in the bloody stand.

But the match restarts. Two quick tries and he’s suddenly changed his tune.

“The dream is on!” he’s going.

I’m telling Ro how Tommy Bowe has been, for me, the revelation of the Six Nations, if that’s an actual word.

But he’s in, like, total awe. He’s there, “Did you see Rog’s chip over the top, Rosser?”

I pull a face like I’m not that impressed? “That’s actually not as difficult as it looks,” I go, and I feel instantly guilty, because if there’s anyone in this stadium who knows what a moment of complete and utter genius that was, it’s me.

So you know what happens next. We let Wales back into it and the old man’s saying that now is the time for certain individuals to stand up and be counted.

The minutes are disappearing fast. It’s, like, ruck after ruck and I’m thinking, now would be a good time for Rog to drop back into the pocket.

But I look and of course he’s already there. Then the ball is in his hands. And then he’s suddenly splitting the posts.

I didn’t see Stephen Jones’s penalty. Ro and the old man didn’t either – they had their hands over their eyes. But me, I was just staring at him.

See, there are those who say it could and should have been me down there today, but those people are wrong.

I could never do what he does and that’s a hard thing to admit when you’re pushing 30 and someone else is living your dream.

When Jones misses, all hell breaks lose. literally. In all the excitement, I even end up hugging my old man, if you can believe that.

He turns around to say something to Jack Kyle but he’s gone and you wouldn’t focking blame him either.

So we end up just sitting there – three generations of us, you could say – staring into space, just emotionally spent.

And I turn to Ro and I go, “You know I was only yanking your chain earlier?” He takes the rollie out of his mouth and looks at me, his little eyes wide.

I’m there, “You weren’t named after Ronan Keating,” and this smile – worth a Grand Slam and two Heineken Cups in anyone’s money – just explodes across his face.