"She’s been parading around Dublin with her ethnically diverse godchildren in tow ..."

The old dear rings in a terrible state.

I go, “Alright, Cruella de Vodka? What’s up?”

She's there, "Ross, something terrible has happened!" and her voice is all, I don't know, shrill?

"Let me guess," I straight away go. "You made the cover of VIP but your forked tail was sticking out of the end of your palazzo pants."

“No.”

“You asked the off licence to honour the points on your loyalty cord and they had to close four branches and make 15 staff redundant?”

“Ross…”

“Okay, give me a second here. The latest batch of blubber they injected into your forehead came from an orangutan and now you’ve an irresistible urge to eat ants off the ground and touch yourself inappropriately in public.”

She goes, “Ross, will you please stop being unpleasant to me for one minute!” and she actually roars the following line at me. “The children are missing!”

I'll give you a bit of background if you're new to this particular story. For as long as I can remember, my old dear has had her hort set on a Rehab People of the Year award. Unfortunately, they don't give out prizes for evil, and year after year, she keeps getting passed over in favour of people who actually deserve to be honoured? So she hired a PR guru, who told her it was time that the public saw – I'm giving you this in quotes – "the luminescent goodness of Fionnuala O'Carroll-Kelly".

Which is why, for the past three weeks, she’s been parading around Dublin with her ethnically diverse godchildren in tow – one black, one Chinese and one a little bit, I don’t know, Eastern Europeany? She’s had them in The Gables. She’s had them in the golf club. She’s taken them to the National Gallery and to Teddy’s.

I saw them a week ago walking Dún Laoghaire pier in a high wind and she looked like Michael Jackson in the Earth Song video – except obviously with more plastic surgery. "What about us?"

I couldn’t get that song out of my head for days.

She has the legs walked off those poor kids. And now they’re… Did she say missing?

“Yes, missing!” she goes. “That’s exactly what I said.”

I’m there, “Okay, what do you mean when you say missing, though?”

“What the hell do you think I mean when I say missing?”

"Whoa, watch your tone there, Angelina Stoli. You rang me, remember? I wouldn't have any qualms about hanging up on you right now."

“I’m sorry, Ross. I’m going out of my mind here!”

“That’s no excuse. Let’s keep the porty polite. You bet-down harridan. Now tell me what happened.”

"It's awful, Ross. I took them into BTs to make an appointment to see Santa Claus – we got the 18th of December – and when we got outside I remembered I'd seen a lovely faux fur stole that I'd meant to pick up, but, well, it slipped my mind. So I asked the children to wait outside while I went back in. And when I came out they were gone!"

“Whoa, whoa, whoa – you asked them to wait outside?”

"I was only gone 10 minutes. Fifteen at the most, because I had to pick up a voucher for Lauraleen Connell to say thank you for all her hord work as lady captain this year."

“You left three kids – of what age? – seven, six and four, outside BTs while you went inside to shop?”

“Oh,” she tries to go, “so that makes me a bad person, does it?”

“Hey, I’ve got a daughter who’s possibly psychotic and a son who’s a professional soccer player. I’m in no position to judge. But, yes, I would say that makes you an absolutely horrendous person.”

“Please, Ross. I’ve been crying for the last hour. My face is a mess.” She’s such a spoofer.

“Your face is a mess,” I go. “I’ll give you that one. But you haven’t had any tear ducts since that botched crow’s feet operation you had done in international waters back in 2005.”

She’s like, “What am I going to do, Ross?”

I’m there, “Is it not obvious?”

“Perhaps we could put something on the internet about them.”

“The internet? Are you kidding me? Call the focking Feds!”

“Oh, I don’t wish to involve the Gords in this matter.”

“I don’t blame you. They’ll probably chorge you with neglect.”

“Neglect? I love my godchildren. There’s a definite bond.”

“I’m sure the judge will take that into account. Ring the Feds.”

“I can’t.”

“If you don’t ring them, I will.”

"Ross, I mean I literally can't. I can't report them missing because… look, I can't remember any of their names." I actually laugh at that one.

“You can’t remember their names?” I go. “Your own godchildren? These kids who you have a definite bond with?”

“I had the names written down and now I can’t find the piece of paper anywhere. I think one is called Fu or Lu or something.”

I’m there, “They’re called Justice, Wu and Gheorghe.” That rocks her back on her heels.

She’s like, “How did you do that? You barely know them. Is it some form of memory technique?”

“Yeah, no, it’s called actually giving a shit about other people,” I go. “And also thinking that kids are pretty focking fantastic if you take the time to get to know them and give them a bit of feedback and a bit of love.” How I turned out to be such a lovely, lovely goy is one of the genuine mysteries of our time.

She goes, “So it’s Lewie, Dewie…”

And I’m there, “It’s Justice, Wu and Gheorghe! For God’s sake, write them down, woman! Then ring the Gords. And the other thing you need to do is to ring their parents.”

She's like, "Oh, I think it's a little bit early for all of that." And I'm there, "Do it, you incontinent old hag – or, again, I will?" Then I hang up on her.

I'm actually staring straight at her, by the way She's outside Weir's, pacing back and forth and her dilemma is obvious. As soon as she makes that call, the word will be all over town and she can say goodbye to one of those little statuettes forever. Do you know what she ends up doing? For once – the right thing. She phones the Feds.

There’s nothing to worry about. I should have possibly mentioned that to you earlier. About 15 minutes ago, I was passing BTs and I saw Justice, Wu and Gheorghe, staring at the window display, obviously on their own.

They told me about the faux fur stole and I went, “She’s un-focking-believable. Come on, let’s hit Mackers.”

And it’s from the window of the McCafe – wrapping our faces around a Big Mac and fries each – that we watch my old dear explain to a pretty shocked lady Fed how she managed to misplace three children.

And after enough time has passed, I go, “Come on, let’s put the old trout out of her misery.”