Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

Christian is sitting at our usual table in 3fe on Sussex Terrace and I can tell instantly that something is up. When you’ve played ten to someone’s twelve, you can have no secrets from each other. Fact of rugby, fact of life.

It’s the old Jonny Bell that hits me first – a combination of bacon, cheese and Tom Ford Portofino that comes wafting up the stairs and under the bedroom door looking for me.

So – yeah, no – I’m mowing the back gorden with my top off again, portly to showcase the work I’ve been doing in the gym since the stort of January, and portly to see how long it takes for it to become an item of discussion on the Dalkey Open Forum

The school concert hall is absolutely rammers this afternoon. We’re talking, like, 1,000 students and parents crammed between the walls to hear the result of the election for Mount Anville Head Girl for 2024-2025 and I haven’t seen Honor looking so pleased with herself since the time she swapped her old dear’s hair conditioning mask for Veet.

It’s Friday afternoon in London, the day before the European Champions Cup final. We’ve spent the last three hours talking about our favourite memories from our years following Leinster.

So I’m driving along Vico Road – one of the bits of the road where two cors can barely pass – when I notice a black SUV coming towards me at speed...

“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “what is she doing?” Yeah, no, she’s talking about Honor, who’s smiling so hord that it looks like someone has jammed a coat hanger in her mouth sideways.

So it’s, like, Friday night and I’m having the usual pints with the goys in The Bridge. Dave Kearney asks how we’re getting on with a big smirk on his face. We’re all, like, crowded around my phone.