It's time to visit the old man before his first Christmas in jail - but, between the Nespresso machine and the daydreams, he's obviously gone off his cake in here.
'Still no word from her then?" I go. "Wouldn't even come to see you for Christmas . . ." He's there, "Who?" I'm like, "Focking Menopause the Musical . . ."
"Your mother," he goes. "Oh, well, you know what December's like for her. Busy baking round the clock, I expect, raising money for all sorts of unfortunates."
I'm there, "Yeah, I saw the pictures. Inviting VIP to her cake sale - is she missing the embarrassment gene or something?" He's like, "It's wonderful to see that her work in aid of the desperately poor is being recognised by the media at long last." I'm like, "You're possibly the saddest focker I've ever met, you know that? The more I see of you in here, the more I wish that judge had given you the chair. Put you out of your misery - and mine."
He totally ignores this, of course, just goes, "You know who did come to see me, though? Young Sorcha." He suddenly has my attention.
"Brought me in the most wonderful gift - one of those Nespresso machines. Café com corpo e alma - if you'll pardon the French . . ." I'm like, "Sorry, can you tell me what you're actually banging on about before I need to shave again?" He goes, "Oh, they're all the rage - to coin a phrase. We're talking innovative machine technology, Kicker, using little foil capsules - for an, inverted commas, genuine, highly quality espresso every time." He's obviously gone off his cake in here.
I'm there, "Are you telling me you're actually allowed one of those in your cell?" "Not as such," he goes. "But there's ways and means. I know one or two faces, as that little chap of yours would say." I go, "God, it's like a holiday camp in here," and I make, like, a mental note to put in an anonymous call to the governor, suggesting they raid his cell.
"Not that it's, er, relevant any more," he goes. "Bit of an accident with it last night." I'm there, "As in?" He's like, "Well, as you know, there's no, quote-unquote, in-cell sanitation in this place. We've got these little pots we have to do our business in - Dickensian, really. Well, old Lex over there got up in the middle of the night, caught short, so to speak, and well . . ."
I actually crack up laughing right in his face. "You're saying your cellmate did an actual Donald Trump in your espresso machine?" "Easy mistake," he goes. "Both have a flip-up lid . . . and so forth," and I'm pretty much on the floor at this stage.
I look over at Lex, who's obviously just told the story to his wife, roysh, because she's mouthing the words, "Ah Jaysus, sorry," to the old man but he's sort of, like, waving it off, going, "An honest mistake. We've all made them - why else are we in here, eh, Lex?"
"We'll boy ya anutter one," she goes and the old man nearly focking levitates off the seat. "No, no," he goes. "Honestly - no point. Please, it's fine . . ." and she seems happy enough with that.
He turns back to me then and goes, "Lex's wife in BTs, Ross - the thought of it!" I'm there, "Er, yeah? Security alert?" "Security alert? They'd need a bloody portcullis to stop her thieving the place blind," and I crack up laughing, roysh - even though I don't know what a portcullis is - then the old man gets a fit of the giggles and it's really weird, roysh, but I'm thinking it's probably the first time I've ever noticed him laugh - as in actually laugh - and all of a sudden I think we're both going to have a basic hort attack we're laughing that hord.
And of course Lex and his bird haven't a Uniflu what's going on.
When we calm down, the old man goes, "My first Christmas inside," looking around him. I'm there, "Wouldn't say the nosebag's too hectic either."
"When you learn to use your imagination, Ross, the food is anything you want it to be. Oh, yes, Christmas morning, we'll be there in the cell, Lex and I, and I'll say, 'Lex, I'm just back from the Forty Foot. Think I'll never get the warmth back into me. But look - what's this? Why, Fionnuala's made some of her world-famous hot buttered rum - two scoops of vanilla ice cream's the secret, old chap. Strictly entre nous, of course.'
"And Lex will have a cider, I expect. Or one of these laggers he likes - Carlsberg, I think one's called. 'I'm mulling some wine,' I'll say, 'in hibiscus, chicory and rose hip peel - that'll explain the smell,' and back will come the answer: 'Nah, yer grand, Charlie - I'll stick with the soyder, so I will.' And I'll say, 'Well have a mince pie, young man. Dinner will be a while.'"
I'm tempted to go, "I hope you focking choke on it," but I don't. What I actually say is, "They've got to be from Caviston's . . ." "Oh, they're from Caviston's," he goes. "Don't you fret. Ones with the lattice crusts." Lattice crusts.
I smile. Reminds me, I suppose, of happy Christmases.
I'm like, "What about dinner, Dad?" Fock - what's the deal here? I haven't called him that since I was, like, six.
"Oh, traditional," he goes. "Turkey, with chestnut stuffing and fried oysters. Potatoes, roasted, in duck fat, of course. Butternut squash. And cranberry sauce - with whole cranberries and orange zest, the way your mother makes it. God, I can smell it . . ."
I can't - all I can smell is piss and hash and Right Guard.
"What about dessert?" He's like, "Plum pudding with baked egg custard. Followed by a nice port. I'll say to Lex, 'Fancy some stilton, old son?' and back'll come the response, 'What the fook is stilton?' and I'll describe the flavour to him and he'll say, 'Nah, I'm grand for stilton, Charlie - think I'll move on to the Quality Street and fart me way through the Bond flick.'
"And I'll say, 'Oh no you won't, young man. No television for you! Not before we've repaired to my study for a glass of vintage armagnac, a couple of Cuban Davidoffs and a tete-a-tete re matters of state - not to mention rugby.' With a capital R, if you've time to kill." It actually sounds great.
He looks up at the clock. "Oh," he goes, sounding suddenly disappointed. "Seems our time is up." I'm like, "Already?" and I look around at the screws but they're not moving.
"They must be giving us more time," I go, "because of, like, Christmas and shit?" He's there, "But you're not racing off somewhere?" and I'm like, "No. No, I've loads of time," and I swear to God, roysh, I actually think he's about to burst into tears.
I quickly go, "Hey, come on, Dad - Stephen's Day. Leopardstown. Maybe a round of golf in the morning, walk off the dinner."
"Nine holes," he says, smiling. "Wonderful Woodenbridge."