“They’ll be earning £100,000 a week for 13 years, then they’ll be thrown on the scrapheap with nothing to show for it”

The old man looks up from his newspaper and goes, "Wouldn't it gladden your heart all the same, Kicker? Fine Gael and Labour in power and socialists being rounded up in dawn raids. It's just like the 1970s again!"

He says this to me while we're on a flight, halfway across whatever that bit of sea is called between Ireland and England – I heard it once but I can never remember it.

I’m there, “If I thought I could get away with it, I’d open that emergency door over there and throw you out of it head-first.”

And he turns to the woman across the aisle from him and goes, “Do not, under any circumstances, draw my son into a debate on the subjects of either politics or economics – the chap would argue with the Pope!”

Thankfully, it's only, like, a short flight? We're going to Manchester to see Ronan – it's, like, a surprise visit, beautifully timed as it happens, because it's mid-term this week and Honor is going to be at home all day, every day.

I wouldn’t envy Sorcha that.

We land, take our bags from the carousel and grab an Andy McNabb to Ronan’s digs.

"Did you say digs?" the old man goes, looking at me like I'm the tip of a Partagás that won't light.

I'm like, "Digs, yeah. He even has, like, a landlady?"

The old man just shakes his head.

“Johnny Sexton’s on the radio talking about his portfolio of investments,” he goes, “while young soccer players are living like the Irish immigrants of the 1950s who tarred Britain’s roads. Dostoevsky couldn’t have written it, Ross – he wouldn’t have bloody well dared!”

We pull up outside the gaff and I knock. The door is answered by a not-great-looking woman in her 40s with Rachel from Friends hair. You don't see many not-great-looking woman in their 40s with Rachel from Friends hair anymore. We used to call them Jennifer Manistons.

I’m there, “Is Ronan there?”

She’s like, “Raaaw nin?” the way people from Manchester talk.

“Yeah, whatever – is he here or not?”

“Is he heck as like! He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Club said they’d not be needint room anymurr – next thing ah knaw, he’s moved owt!”

Me and the old man exchange a look, although neither of us says an actual word. We turn and we hail another taxi and tell the dude to take us to the Manchester United Soccer training ground.

“Yeah, no,” I go, “I know what’s probably happened. He was telling me on the phone last week how well he’s been doing. They’ve obviously moved him into a bigger gaff. Or even a hotel!”

The old man goes, “Yes, I’m sure that’s it, Ross.”

Into the training ground we go. The old man whips out his hipflask and takes a long mouthful from it. He hates soccer but I think he also genuinely fears it?

A few minutes later, we’re standing at the side of a pitch, watching 20 kids in orange bibs just running around randomly. We haven’t got a clue what we’re looking at, of course – we’re like two blind dudes staring at a Tube map.

I’m just trying to pick out Ronan, except I don’t see him out there.

"I've been staring at these chaps for a while now," the old man eventually goes. "And, as far as I can see, the object of the exercise appears to be to kick the ball between the posts at either end of the field – but underneath the bar!"

I’m there, “I’d ban it tomorrow. I genuinely would. I’m just looking for Ronan, though.”

“Yes, I don’t see the little chap out there.”

“Yeah, no, I’ll tell you what it is – the apprentices usually train in two groups. His group will obviously be out when this lot are finished whatever it is they’re doing.”

“That’ll be it, then.”

“Yeah, no, he’ll be up next.”

“God, I’m just looking at these kids, Ross – what bloody hope do they have in life, eh? Even the lucky ones who make it – they’ll be earning £100,000 a week for 13 or 14 years, then they’ll be thrown on the scrapheap with nothing to show for it.”

“I worry about Ronan – I’m not going to deny it.”

He just nods and goes, "I'm just glad your mother and I kept you away from it. Did I ever tell you about the time we isolated you during Italia '90?"

I’m like, “Yeah, no, loads of times.”

“Took the plug off the television. Told all your little pals that you were seriously ill and we’d had to send you to a sanatorium. Well, the whole country had gone bloody mad, Ross. People singing ‘Ole, ole, ole!’ and being sick in the street. I said to your mother, ‘If he succumbs to whatever form of collective psychosis has taken over the rest of the country, well, it could spell the end of potentially the greatest number 10 of this or any other generation.’”

A whistle blows. One set of kids walk off the pitch and a new set of kids run onto it.

I’m there, “I possibly should thank you. I’d prefer to be the Nearly Man of Irish Rugby than the Nearly Man of Irish Soccer.”

The old man goes, “Oh, there’s no comparison!” then he takes out his hipflask again and knocks back another mouthful of the old tolerance juice.

I’m there, “That’s weird.”

He’s like, “What’s weird, Kicker?”

“I don’t see Ronan among that lot either.”

He squints his eyes.

He goes, “You’re absolutely right, Ross. He’s not out there.”

I spot this dude. He's, like, supposedly a coach – in so far as it's possible to coach someone to play soccer. I tip over to him. He actually remembers me from the last time I was here.

Before I can get a word out, he goes, “If tha’s ere t’ask me tut change ma mind, tha’s wastint time.”

It's a good job I watch the odd Corrie.

I’m like, “Wasting your time? What are you talking about? Where’s Ronan?”

And I nearly fall down like a soccer player in the penalty box under the rumour of a tackle when he looks me squarely in the face and goes, “Ronant were let go. He were released byte club before Christmas.” ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE