‘Charles has changed since moving to Bray. He turned up in Portmornock Golf Club yesterday - wearing a Dryrobe’

So – yeah, no – I’m sitting outside in the sun, sucking on a stick of Heinemite and drawing up my shortlist for this year’s Rossies, which are basically a bunch of awards that I give out to the Leinster players who’ve impressed me most during the season. Obviously not literally. The players know fock-all about it, although I did mention it to Leo Cullen one night in La Bodega in Ranelagh, but I had drink on me at the time and none of the players turned up in The Bridge the night I told him I’d be naming the winners.

Their loss, in fairness.

Anyway, I’ve got a shortlist of five scribbled down for Player of the Year, Try of the Year and Most Stylish Dresser of the Year, when I suddenly catch the smell of cigor smoke in my nostrils. I turn around and Hennessy is standing behind my sun lounger, a Romeo y Julieta the size of a can of tennis balls burning between his teeth. I end up getting a serious fright.

I’m like, “The fock, Dude? How do you not make any sound when you walk?”

I’m thinking, maybe he’s discovered some way to silence his feet. I know he doesn’t have any fingerprints because I was there when Ronan burned them off for him using hydrochloric acid after I made the mistake of letting him do his transition year work placement in Hennessy’s office.

The dude goes, “What are you doing? That the Rossies?”

I end up trying to slam my Rugby Tactics Book closed, except Hennessy’s too quick for me. He jams his hand between the pages.

“Dick Move of the Year?” he goes. “Who’s on the shortlist?”

I’m there, “Right now, I’ve only got Whoever Allowed James Lowe to Leave.”

He’s like, “You know we tried to stop it? Your father and me told the branch that we’d put up the money to keep him, but they didn’t want to deal with us.”

I’m there, “They’d need asbestos gloves to handle your money, it’s that focking hot.”

And he laughs – he actually laughs. It’s all very weird.

He goes, “Asbestos gloves! I’ll remember that one! You know, we ought to try and make the Rossies a thing.”

I’m like, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, a proper night of awards,” he goes. “We could book The Great Room in the Shelbourne. I’ll sponsor the whole thing.”

I’m there, “Why are you being weird?”

“Am I being weird?”

“You’re smiling for one thing. I haven’t seen you smile since, well, ever.”

“Is it so unbelievable that I’d be happy to see you?”

“Honestly? Yeah, it is. You’ve never liked me.”

He actually laughs at that.

He goes, “Of course I like you! You’re my godson!” as if that went automatically?

I’m there, “Dude, I’ve seen the photographs of my christening. You brought a hooker to it.”

“I think ‘sex worker’ is the term they prefer nowadays. If we’re being pedantic, though, she was an exotic dancer.”

“She was standing at the baptismal font. Next to you. You had lipstick all over your face.”

“Happy times.”

“Yeah, no, for you, maybe.”

“Come on, Ross, we had great fun together when you were a kid.”

“Did we?”

“You idolised me.”

“I remember you used to call around every December and tell me to pick out anything I wanted from the Argos catalogue.”

“I remember it well.”

“You never actually bought me any of the things I picked out.”

“Well, it taught you a valuable lesson. Don’t expect anything out of life. Because the world will kick you in the nuts just for being born.”

“You ruined so many Christmases for me.”

“It made you mean. And meanness made you the rugby player you very nearly could have been.”

I’m like, “Yeah, no, thanks,” because he has a way of sweet-talking me. “Actually, no, it’s a nice thing for me to hear – a big, big confidence boost – but what the fock do you want? Why are you even here?”

He finally comes clean.

“I’m worried about Charlie,” he goes.

I’m there, “My old man? Er, why?”

“He’s living in Bray with a woman named Bernie. You want me to go on?”

“Yeah, no, I reckon he’s just on the rebound from the old dear.”

He’s like, “You know she’s got a sheet as long as–?”

I’m there, “Yours?”

And he goes, “Not quite that long, no. But long enough. Handling stolen property. Possession of cannabis with intent to supply. Shoplifting.”

I’m there, “It’s Bray. I’ve been making the case for flooding it for how many years now? Let the sea at it.”

He goes, “People are worried about him. And it’s not just because of the company he’s keeping. He’s changed since he moved to Bray.”

I’m like, “Are you talking about the accent? Yeah, no, it’s up and down like the price of diesel.”

He goes, “Worse than that. Look, it’s better you hear it from me than from someone else. He turned up in Portmornock Golf Club yesterday – wearing a Dryrobe.”

I’m like, “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you heard me right.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“A Dryrobe,” he goes. “Instead of his camel hair coat.”

I’m like, “What the actual–?”

“When I asked about it, he said he’d been – get this – sea-swimming.”

“Sea-swimming? In the sea off Bray?”

“He refused to take the Dryrobe off in the bar. Now there’s a motion down to have him thrown out of Portmornock.”

I’m there, “That would be the ultimate humiliation,” and bear in mind he went to jail for planning corruption.

Hennessy goes, “Ross, you have to save him from himself.”

All of a sudden, I hear a voice behind me go, “Hennessy! What the hell are you doing here?”

I turn around and there’s the old man, standing in – yeah, no – a humungous Dryrobe, the colour of a focking fire engine. You’d have to have a seriously hord hort not to be worried about him.

He goes, “I just popped in, Kicker, to see if you’d announced the shortlist for the Rossies yet!”

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