Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: ‘Conor McGregor has a lot to answer for. Not that I’d say that to his face’

I find Ronan in a slaughterhouse on Saint Morgaret's Road, beating up the corcass of a cow, which is hanging from the ceiling by a chain. Apparently, it's how Rocky trained, although I've never actually seen any of those movies – my old man didn't want me exposed to other sports in case it derailed my interest in rugby.

Ro goes, “The thrick is to break the ribs, Rosser,” dancing around on the blood-soaked floor, throwing jabs, hooks and the odd kick, while calling the dead cow a poxbottle, a scumfook and a doorty looken doort boord.

Conor McGregor has an awful lot to answer for. Not that I’d say that to his face.

I’m like, “Who even owns this place?”

The sign on the roof says “Meat Your Maker”.

“Nudger’s brutter-in-law,” he goes. “He’s a fan of moyen. He won a fowertune on me last fight.”

I’m there, “Yeah, no, fair focks,” and then I try to change the subject. “So did you see your famous Dubs, Ro?”

He’s like, “Ta Tups? What about them?”

"I'm just saying they beat Kerry, didn't they? They won the whole, I don't know, thing?"

“It’s called the All-Arelunt, Rosser.”

"The All-Ireland, yeah. Pretty inspiring stuff, I would have thought. I mean, it made me nearly proud to be from Dublin. That's saying something."

He suddenly stops beating up the dead animal. He goes, “I know what your gayum is, Rosser.”

I’m like, “Game? I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your throying to get me inthorested in the gah again – you think if I steert going to see the boys again, Ine gonna lose inthordest in the spowert of mixed meertial eerts.”

"Well, I'm still not a hundred percent convinced it is a sport?"

"What do you call a spoert? Throwing a ball backwards to each udder, then putting it behoyunt a line?"

“Exactly. There’s a serious point to the exercise. But mixed mortial orts seems to be about, I don’t know, just beating the lord out of each other for no actual reason. A general rule for me is that it’s not a sport if you can do it on the upper deck of a number 40 bus.”

He goes back to punching, kicking and insulting the dead animal. “I wontherstand you’re woodied,” he goes. “But Ine not gonna get hoort.”

I’m like, “You don’t know that.”

“Ine too good, Rosser. There’s not a man in the wurdled can beat me. Ine breaking necks and Ine cashing cheques – and Ine pucking the lug off shams that get in me way. It’s oatenly Sos Redmond standing between me and a crack at Josey Anto for the belt – and Ine gonna bleaten liquidate the doorty pox.”

I decide to just leave him to it. I find it hord to get through to my son when he’s in character like this, so I tell him I’ll see him on Halloween Night for the – did he say Sos Redmond? – fight.

I head outside and I hop into the cor. I'm about to turn the key when I end up having one of my world famous ideas. I actually laugh to myself at how good it is?

I whip out my phone and I ring Ronan’s number. He answers on the 10th ring, out of breath. He’s like, “Hello?” And I go, “Howiya, Ronan, it’s Burden It Brogan,” who just so happens to be one of his all-time heroes. “Burden It Brogan offa the Dublin team. What’s the stordee?”

He ends up totally falling for it. He’s like, “Ah, howiya, Burden It – how’s things?”

I’m there, “Notta bodder on me, Ronan. Ine just arthur being celebrating for the last nearly two weeks, so I am – arthur winning the, I don’t know, All-Arelunt Celtic Sports Football Championships.”

“Ah, feer fooks, Burden It.”

“Feer fooks is right. What about you, Ronan? I hope you’re still playing the gayum!”

Ronan goes, “Ine not, Burden It. Ine arthur giving it up, so I am.”

I’m there, “Ine veddy surprised to hear that. When you did me skills camp a couple of summers ago, you were veddy keen on it. I think I remember you saying the gah was your one throo love, even more so than soccer.”

“Ine into the mixed meertial eerts now, but.” “The what?” “Mixed meertial eerts. UFC – all that.”

I’m like, “Ine gonna have to be honest with you, Ronan, so I am – I wouldn’t really class that as a spowert.” He laughs. He’s there, “Now you sound like me ould fella.”

“Maybe you should listen to your ould fella,” I go. “I oatenly met him the once, but he sthruck me as the kind of fedda who’s never been afraid to consistently call it. Beerd in moyunt, he was also an incredible competitor in he’s own spowert and could’ve played rubby at the highest level if he’d oatenly met a coach like Joe Schmidt early in his career.”

Ro goes, “I suppose you’ve got a poyunt.”

I’m there, “Thrust me, Ronan, give up that ould mixed meertial whatever the fook and go back to playing a real spowert: eeder rubby, or, failing that, the gah. You could end up winning an All-Arelunt Celtic Sports Football medal like what I’ve got.”

He’s like, “Do you know what, Burden It? You’re after making me see the light!” I’m there, “Reedy?”

He goes, “Reedy! Ine giving up this ould rubbish and Ine going back to the gah.”

“Or the rubby – I wouldn’t rule out the rubby.”

That’s when I look up to see Ronan grinning at me through the front windscreen. I’m wondering has he copped it’s me. I try to bluff him. I put my hand over the mouthpiece of my phone and go, “I’m just talking to Mads here, Ro. You know how much he values my advice.”

“Rosser,” he goes, “when you ring me phowun, your nayum comes up on the screeun.”

Seriously, I’d have to be considered one of Ireland’s thickest-ever people.

He’s there, “When people on this soyud of the city thalk, Rosser, is that what you hee-ur?”

I nod. I’m like, “Kind of, yeah.”

He shakes his head. He goes, “You’re some floot. I’ll see you at the fight.”