Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

Everybody knows about the Dalkey Lobster Festival. It’s coming up in, like, two weeks’ time, and Sorcha is already practising her walk and wave for the Parade of Lobster Queens Past, wearing the sash and crown that she’s held onto ever since her victory in 2008, at the stort of the crash, on a platform of, I want to say, hope?

All of Ronan’s old mates are there. We’re talking Buckets of Blood. We’re talking Stacks of Money. We’re talking Nudger. We’re talking Gull. It’s actually Stacks of Money who sidles up to me as I’m watching Ronan across the room, chatting to Paul Reynolds from RTÉ.

The old man looks wretched. I say it to him as well. I’m like, “You look focking wretched – worse than usual"

“The fock is going on here?” I go. Because – yeah, no – I’ve arrived home to find my wife, my four sons and my in-laws sitting in front of the TV watching, quite literally, a soccer match? My reaction is basically the same as it would be if I arrived home to find Sorcha in bed with Russell Crowe.

So me and Ronan swing out to – believe it or not – Bray, just to see how my old man is getting on. I’ve a bet with him that he won’t last the summer living out there and I like to check on my investment from time to time.

I absolutely despise Christian’s wife, Lauren. I say it as well. Not to her face obviously. Sorcha goes, “Ross, you shouldn’t despise anyone.” This coming from the girl who refuses to watch anything with Jake Gyllenhaal in it because he broke Taylor Swift’s hort a life sentence ago.

So the latest “thing” in our house is the Swedish death clean. For those of you who aren’t married to Sorcha Lalor, this is a decluttering method that’s meant to spare your loved ones the trouble of sorting through your shit after you’ve dropped the mic.

The old man says he thinks he might not live long enough to see Leinster win the European Cup again. I tell him I’m only 46 years old and I’m storting to feel the same way.