Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘You’re a dirty dog. And I can’t tell you how proud that makes me feel’

He’s standing at the bus stop at the main UCD entrance. I pull in and give him a blast of the horn. He squints his eyes, then realizes it’s me and a few seconds later he’s opening the passenger door, going, “Stordee, Rosser?”

I'm there, "How the hell are you, Ro? Yeah, no, I was just passing, saw you standing there and thought I'd give you a lift home. I hate thinking of you using public transport. I hate thinking of anyone using public transport."

“You’re one of the wurdled’s great humanitardians, Rosser.”

“I have no idea what that even means but I’ll take it as a compliment. How’s the whole college thing going?”

“It’s, er, great, yeah. Ine lubbing it.”

There's, like, silence between us then. I pull up at a red light outside RTÉ and I go, "Are they, em, the same clothes you were wearing yesterday, Ro?"

He’s like, “Soddy?” with a big guilty face on him.

I’m there, “Yeah, no, when I met you for lunch yesterday, I could have sworn you were wearing that same hoodie and those same jeans. It’s just an observation.”

He goes, “I was, er, in a huddy this morden. I was rudding late, so I just grabbed the neardest clowiths to me.”

“Is that what it was, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t, you know, score some young one – maybe someone you met in the student bor?”

His face goes red. He’s like, “No.”

I’m there, “Definitely not?”

“Rosser, I’ve a geerlfriend and a kid at home.”

"Hey, I've got a wife and kid at home and I still do alright for myself."

He’s there, “Yeah, well, Ine not you, Rosser – and that’s no offedence.”

I’m like, “Yeah, none taken, Ro. None taken whatsoever.”

On we go towards Donnybrook Garage, then I take a right onto Ailsebury Road.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I go, “I wasn’t trying to catch you out. I just thought maybe you got lucky last night.”

He’s there, “That’s a lesson for you, Rosser – doatunt judge everdyone by yisser own standards.”

“Like I said, it was the fact that you’re in the same clobber as yesterday… And also the fact that Shadden rang me an hour ago to ask if it was true that you stayed with us last night.”

Ronan’s mouth is suddenly flapping around like a landed mackerel. He’s like, “Wh… wh… wh… what?”

“Don’t worry,” I go, “I covered for you. That’s another one of my famous qualities that I genuinely love – I’m a great liar. If I ever catch myself telling the truth to a woman, I quickly tell her three lies to cover it up.”

“Did she belieb you?”

“Of course she believed me. Like I said, Ro, I’m a pro when it comes to this stuff. The only thing is, you have to give me a heads-up the next time. She kind of blindsided me. I hadn’t a bog what she was talking about at first.”

“There’s not gonna be a next toyum, Rosser.”

I turn and I look at him. I know straight away what he’s going through.

“Ro,” I go, “guilt is like a hangover. It lasts 24 hours – tops.”

It doesn’t seem to cheer him up at all.

He’s there, “I did the doort, Rosser. The foorst time ebber – I did the doort on Shadden.”

"And I know you're not ready to hear it, but I'm saying fair focks to you. If I have one regret in my life – obviously non rugby related? – it's that I should have slept with more women. And I slept with loads. Thousands. So was she nice?"

“Who?”

“This bird you cheated on Shadden with – I’d say she’s a total lasher, is she?”

“Yeah, she’s nice. Her nayum’s Josephine.”

“Josephine? Jesus, she sounds like-.”

“She’s from Galway.”

“Galway? Am I hearing that right?”

“Galway, yeah.”

“And she’s up here studying, I’m presuming, Agricultural Science?”

“She’s doing Eerts, Rosser.”

“Orts? Fair enough. I don’t know why I said Agricultural Science.”

“Ignordance.”

"Probably was ignorance, yeah."

He storts – I swear to God – crying then?

“Ro,” I go, “it’s really not a major deal. As long as Shadden doesn’t find out.”

He rips into me then. He goes, “Mebbe I doatunt want to turden out like you! Hab you thought about that? Mebbe I doatunt want to be a bleaten liar and a cheat like you.”

I’m like, “Hey, you were the one who was up all night riding Peigín Leitir Móir.”

I feel instantly bad for saying it, because he goes quiet then for a good, like, 20 minutes. We cross the Liffey and I decide it’s possibly time for one of my famous father-son chats.

“Ro,” I go, “this urge to cheat – you can’t help it.”

He’s like, “What are you on about?”

“It’s in our family genes, Ro. That’s what our last marriage guidance counsellor told Sorcha. Although I think the woman had a bit of a thing for me. What I’m saying is that we’re slaves to it. The temptation to stray – it’s passed down. Like rugby.”

“I doatunt belieb that.”

“Trust me, Ro, you’re just the latest in a long line of Kelly family dirtbags. I’m probably Ireland’s top philanderer. Okay, that’s a good idea for a TV show – remind me to write that into my phone the next time we hit a red light. My old man was a ladies man, if you can believe that.”

“Cheerlie?”

"Yeah, no, women had lower standards in those days. This was before the whole feminism thing. They were easily pleased. His father was a serious swordsman – he could seduce any woman alive. And his father before that is supposed to have had, like, 30 kids all over the country."

“You’re joking me.”

“I’m not. My old man showed me the family tree once. It was like a focking rain forest.”

Poor Ronan just stares into space. I pull up outside his gaff. “Ro,” I go, “you can’t change your nature. A dog is a dog, no matter how much he wants to be a cat. And you’re a dirty dog. And I can’t tell you how proud that makes me feel.”

Again, it doesn’t seem to come as any consolation to him. He gets out of the cor, then I watch him walk up the driveway to his front door with his head down.

He has no idea how much fun he’s about to have.