'He drops eight bags on the table, packed with white powder'

I’m no snob, roysh, but I didn’t pay top dollar for this gaff to end up watching soccer and listening to Christy Dignam

SO THERE I was sitting in the gaff last Saturday night, one or two Richard Geres, watching Leo's Lions make a mess of Munster. Or are they called Munster Nil? I was looking at Jonny Sexton, kicking like a ninja and reminding everyone of me in my prime, when all of a sudden all I could hear was the sound of Christy Dignam singing Wish You Were Herenext door and the Westies, who I have for neighbours thanks to the Department of Social Welfare, singing along at the top of their voices.

Of course it fell to me – as someone who paid 800,000 snots for his aportment – to knock in and remind them that they’re not in Fuerteventura now.

“Aaahhhh,” one of them goes, when he answers the door – I’m pretty sure it’s Terry – apparently delighted to see me. “Mon in,” and he opens the door wider and sort of, like, flicks his head, indicating the living-room.

I go in and even sit down.

“Toorden that dowin,” he shouts. “It’s Ronan’s ould fella,” and the music suddenly goes off, then three or four of them appear around the door of the living-room, covered in jailhouse ink of course, and all smiles, like they find even the idea of me ridiculous. They’re checking out what I’m wearing and they’re just, like, shaking their heads, like they’ve never seen Dubes worn with Cantos before.

I’m about to mention the noise, when out of the blue, Johnny – de brutter, as Terry calls him – points at the, I don’t know, 250-inch plasma screen on the wall. They’ve got the Leinster versus Munster Nil match on mute. “Here,” he goes, “you know a bit about rubby, don’t you?” I laugh. It’s, like, I have to? “Dude, that’s like asking Kerry Katona if she knows the number for Domino’s.” They all crack their holes laughing, although I don’t know if they find it genuinely funny? These kind of people would sell your arse for parts.

"So tell me," he goes, "how does it woork? What's the roo-ils." I tell him it's pretty complicated. I'd probably need, like, props to explain it to him? He gets his hand and sweeps all the copies of, I don't know, Guns and Ammoand the Evening Heraldoff the coffee table; then, from somewhere, Terry produces two ormfuls of what turn out to be pill bottles – full, of course.

“Use these,” he goes, “for the players,” and I’m like, “Errr, okay,” not wanting to even ask what’s in them? I use them to set up the backline – Isa, Shaggy, God, Dorce, Pivot, Sex Machine and Reds – then I explain to them a bit about how the backline should function and how they’re basically the glamour boys, making sure to mention that I was was one of them in my day. Of course, this is me suddenly in my element – a lot of people out there are of the opinion that I was, like, born to coach?

“Now,” I go, “the forwards are generally much bigger.” “Hang on,” Terry goes. He disappears into the kitchen, then comes back a few seconds later and drops eight cellophane bags onto the table, packed tight with this, like, white powder that looks like – but I presume isn’t? – icing sugar. They all laugh. I don’t ask. As Ro always says, a shut mouth, blahdy blahdy blah. I lay them out in lines of three, two and three, then show them how the scrum works, then the line-out.

“Of course,” I go, “the other job the forwards do is softening up the opposition, so the likes of me, Drico and Darce up there can work our magic.” They’re all looking at the TV, nodding. They seem to be genuinely into it?

“Here,” Terry goes, suddenly reaching down to rearrange the pieces, “will I show you how soccer woorks?” I sort of, like, stir uneasily in my chair. “I’ve seen it once or twice on TV,” I go. “No offence – it’s not the kind of thing I want to get mixed up in.” Of course they all just stare at me, roysh, and it’s immediately obvious that there’s one or two hurt feelings in the room.

“You know,” Johnny suddenly goes, “there was a fella in the Joy with me a couple of year ago – he was into he’s rubby as well. Even steerted up a team in there, so he did . . .” I know immediately who he’s talking about.

“Ah, Charlo!” one of the other dudes goes.

Johnny’s there, “Exactly. Charles O’Cattle-Keddy. He was fooken wushipped in the Joy, so he was. Wanna know why? He never looked dowin he’s nose at anyone.” I’m thinking, you obviously never read his election manifesto when he stood for the PDs.

“He’s your ould fella,” he goes. “Am I right?” I’m there, “Technically, yeah.”

“How is he?” he goes – actually meaning it – and I’m there, “He’s fine – just opened up a cheesemongers to launder 50-something million that he had stashed in . . .”

I all of a sudden stop. Johnny smiles at me like I’ve just made his point for him?

“You see,” he goes, “you’re not all that diffordent from us, are you? I mean, you swadden around the place like you’re something special, toordening your nose up at us in the lift, banging on the wall when we’re only listening to a few sow-inds, telling us how much you paid for your gaff, all that. But we’re not that diffordent . . .”

“Again,” I go, “no offence but I disagree.” He just, like, ignores me. He’s there, “And I’ll tell you anutter thing. About this recession. Your kind and our kind, we’re being trun together again.” I don’t even want to think about it.

Terry takes over then. “There’s a match on Satdee,” he goes. “Arelind against Itlee. It’s a Wuttled Cup qualifier. You’re coming in here to watch it wi’us. Bring beer.” Of course one of the things I was, like, famous for back in my playing days was my ability to think on my feet. “Er, Treviso are playing Perpignan,” I quickly go. “I’d have to check first whether it’s, like, an afternoon or evening kick-off?”

“Can I just remind you,” he just goes, nodding at the, presumably, illegal drugs on the coffee table, “your prints are all over that shit there.” Then he smiles at me – teeth like a ram-raided off-licence window – and goes, “See you Satdee, neighbour.”

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