Ronan has found a role model to look up to, and the good news is he even likes rugby. But then there's the bad news . . ., writes Ross O'Carroll-Kelly
IF THERE'S ONE thing that seriously grinds my gears it's people who try to turn us - us, as in the rugby crowd - into, like, cartoon characters? Who try to make out that we're all Heino-drinking, high-fiving Trustifarians, when we're actually not.
It's only when you travel to an actual away game that you appreciate all the different backgrounds that the Irish supporters are coming from.
Last weekend, in the old Morquess of Anglesey, down Covent Gorden way, we ended up drinking and singing with lawyers from all walks of life - we're talking corporate, we're talking funds, we're talking hostile litigation.
The old man was in there as well, talking out of his hole at a thousand decibels, like he has before every Irish game at Twickenham since 1968.
"Look at us," he's going, "three generations of the O'Carroll-Kelly clan, here to see Mr Eddie O'Sullivan of Youghal Town lead his troops to a famous victory against the incorrectly spelt auld enemy." Midday and he's already mashed.
I turn around to Ronan to apologise for him but he's too busy slyly topping up his own Coke from his little hipflask. Some family.
Ronan's quiet, though. I'd honestly have to say he hasn't been himself since that Prime Time interview with the Monk. He went off to bed that night putting a brave boat on it. He was like, "Five hundrit watts in he's face and he still tells the fookers nothing," but deep down I know he was disappointed.
As a father, it hasn't escaped my attention that this is the man he's been modelling himself on.
The Monk has a Hummer limousine service. Ronan has a quarter share in a horse-drawn carriage. The Monk denies stealing three mills from a security depot in Clonshaugh. Ronan denies stealing the lead from the roof of Foxrock Golf Club during the presentation of the lady captain's prize.
What he loved most about the Monk, though, was that he couldn't give a rat's orse what anyone thought - he just walked around with that little half-smile on his lips, like he knew something the rest of us didn't. Ro spent whole nights in his room trying to perfect that look. But seeing his hero suddenly up there, on the 120-inch plasma screen, denying things, stripped away the mystique. It was like finding out there's no such thing as, well, you know who.
The only thing he said about it when I rang him the next day was, "What's next? Charity You're a Star? A VIP spread?" As we set off for Twickenham, I'm still trying to explain to him that it's a fact of life that your heroes will eventually disappoint you. I know he's hurting in major way. Four hours later, back on the Marquess, he's in good company. In fact, he's suddenly trying to cheer us up.
"Looks like a new boss man's coming in," he's going. "What about this sham Ashton? Didn't he get England to the Wurdled Cup final?" I'm there, "We, er, had him before and got rid. Well, it came down to a choice - either he went or Pa Whelan went."
"Who?" he goes.
"Long story, Ro. Long story."
"Well, what about this Warden Gatland. Would he be any good?"
"Just drink your Jack Daniels and Coke, Ro." We're settling down, roysh, for what looks like being a major downer of a night when all of a sudden I hear a familiar voice behind me go, "Ronan - what's the story?" I whip around and who's standing there - one of those speak of the devil moments - but the Monk himself.
It's amazing, roysh. Ro's only met him once, that time two Christmases ago when I bought him a present of a morning being driven around in the stretch Hummer - and yet the Monk still remembers his name. I suppose he'd have to keep tabs on all the up-and-coming talent.
Anyway, roysh, he spends, like, 20 minutes shooting the shit with us - mostly about what a doorty rag the Sunday Wurdled is and whether Bernard Dunne can win back his European title - and of course it's not long before Ronan is totally smitten again.
He's going, "You're some fooken buachaill, Gerry," shaking his head in, like, total admiration. And I have to say I'm doing much the same when the Monk turns around and orders a round. I don't care what he's allegedly done as long as he's getting them in.
That's when the old man decides to stop boring the ears off some total randomer about what a difference Luke Fitzgerald might have made this afternoon and sidles over to us.
"Charles," he goes, sticking out his hand.
"Ah, Jaysus, I know who you are," the Monk goes but in, like, a friendly way? "How'd they treat you in there?"
"Where, the Joy?" the old man goes. "Oh, wonderful. You know, I even miss the place." The old man, it turns out, hasn't a focking bog who he's talking to and I end up nearly choking on my Krug Grand Cuvée when he turns around 10 minutes later and goes, "So, what do you do yourself, Gerry?"
"Er, this and that," he goes. "I, er, made a few bob out of shrewd property deals back in the 80s."
"So did I," the old man goes at the top of his voice. "Until the bloody Revenue and those Criminal Assets chaps caught up with me."
The Monk's like, "Yeah, I'd have been fairly ignorant of the tax laws meself."
The old man shakes his head. "You and I, Gerry - we're like peas in a pod," then he turns around to the borman and goes, "Let's have another bottle of whatever Ross there is drinking." The next thing, roysh, he's telling the Monk all about this plan that he and Hennessy have to turn the Joy into a hotel once they build the new Moccasin County Jail.
The Monk loves the idea. Says he's interested in a piece. The old man says he'd love to have him on board. Five minutes later they're exchanging business cords and Ronan's little face is lit up like Finglas on Paddy's Day. Eventually, the Monk has to hit the road, though before he does, he stops and goes, "Going to the rubby matches - it's not the kind of thing I want broadcast. Be bad for me rep." Quick as a flash, Ronan goes, "A shut mouth catches no foot," and then he gives him a flash of that famous smile.
TXT ROSS
Readers in need of advice can text Ross at 087-9773781
Andy D goes, "Hav u seen that total honey on the Fás ad on the side of all the buses? I did a Fás course 3yrs ago n they all looked like backs of buses. Wots goin on?"It's obviously trick camerawork. I mean, who on a Fás course could afford Uggs?
Some dude who doesn't give his name goes, "Two men called to my door last night and asked what kind of bread I ate. When I said white they lectured me on the benefits of brown bread for 30 minutes - bloody Hovis witnesses!"
Cormac in Leafy Sandymount goes, "Ross me n da goys hav storted callin G&Ts Gerry Thornleys. Its our way of paying tribute to the best rugby journo ever."