‘You focking idiot, Ross! Chocolate is poisonous to dogs’

Christian’s wife, Lauren, has never been a fan of the Rossmeister General. I don’t mind. I think it was me who first said I’d rather be someone’s shot of tequila than everyone’s cup of tea.

I blame Christian in many ways. They got separated a few years ago, then got back together again. In the warm glow of, I don’t know, reconciliation, Lauren pumped the dude for information as to what his friends had said about her while they were broken up.

“I won’t be angry,” she went – yeah, no, that old chestnut. “I’d just be curious to know.”

Like an idiot, Christian gave her chapter and verse on – literally? – everything I said about her. Like she has a really annoying blinking habit? Like she's probably the worst cook in the world? Like she doesn't make the effort in terms of her appearance?

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It didn’t help either that, during the course of their separation, she had an erotic dream about yours truly – the details of which she divulged to Sorcha years later with drink on her – then acted all hostile to me for about six months afterwards, like it was somehow my fault?

But, hey, I’m godfather to their eldest son – as in, like, Ross Junior – so, for better or worse, I’m always going to be in her life.

I've always taken my duties as a godfather super, super seriously. For instance, I've never forgotten the kid's birthday. I'm not saying I've always bought him a present – or even remembered it beforehand? – but not a year goes by when I don't think, hang on, I think what's-his-face's birthday might have been last week. Or even the week before.

What I’m trying to say is that I always make a big fuss – we’re talking birthdays, we’re talking Christmases, we’re talking all the biggies. And, typical me, this Easter ends up being no exception.

I rock up to the gaff in Booterstown on, like, Good Friday afternoon and I knock on the door. She answers. You'd swear from the look on her face that I'd turned up at her mother's wake to read the electricity meter.

She's like, "Oh, it's you!"

And I’m there, “Yes, it’s me,” stepping past her into the hallway and then into the kitchen.

There's a porty happening – although I notice that it's all her friends, and none of his?

I’m like, “What happened?” and I’m laughing as I say it. “Did my invitation get lost in the post?”

Which she decides to ignore.

Ross Junior steps into the kitchen and goes, “Hi, Roth!” because – yeah, no – he’s got this cute little lisp thing going on. “I thidn’t know you were coming!”

The kid absolutely idolises me. I’m sure Christian has filled him in on some of the legendary stories about me over the years – the ones that are fit for children anyway!

Lauren goes, “I’d offer you something to eat, Ross, but then I know how much you hate my cooking.”

Add “she knows how to hold a grudge” to that list I mentioned earlier.

I’m like, “Yeah, no, I’m luckily not hungry, Lauren,” because I ate her tandoori mackerel once and I ended up – I’m trying to think of a nice way of putting this – but sh***ing wallpaper paste for 48 hours afterwards.

“Happy Eathter, Uncle Roth,” the little dude goes.

Lauren’s like, “He’s not your uncle. He’s not a relative at all. And I see he hasn’t exactly come laden down with Easter eggs for you and your brother.”

It gives me the greatest pleasure in the world to go, "Er, that's where you're wrong, Lauren?" because at nine o'clock this morning, while the kids were at hockey practice – don't even stort me – I swung into the gaff and hid Easter eggs all over the back gorden. "Where's your brother, by the way?" and then I stort shouting, "Oliver? Oliver?"

The kid walks over to us holding something revolting on a skewer.

“Mommy,” he goes, handing it to her, “I don’t like this!”

I say nothing – even though there's plenty I could say?

I’m like, “Okay, kids, let’s have some fun! How would you like to go… on an Easter egg hunt?”

Lauren’s there, “An Easter egg hunt?” sounding Scooby Doobious. She hates how much fun I hopefully am.

"That's right," I go. "I swung in while they were at focking hockey and I hid Easter eggs all over the gorden."

Lauren's like, "You did what?"

I’m there, “Yeah, no, regular little Easter bunny – that’s me!”

She goes, “But what about Buster?”

I’m like, “Who the fock is Buster?” looking around the room.

Every conversation has stopped, by the way?

“Buthter ith my dog!” Ross Junior goes.

Lauren’s there, “You focking idiot, Ross!” and she’s talking to me, not him. “Don’t you know that chocolate is poisonous to dogs?”

I'm there, "Er, I didn't even know you had a dog."

She goes, “You arrived at the door with it two Christmas Eves ago!”

I remember now. In my defence, I was mashed.

She’s suddenly shouting at the top of her voice. She’s like, “Oliver, there’s a syringe full of salty water in the fridge! Go and get it! I’ll get Buster!”

Out to the gorden she goes. Then she arrives back. Under her orm is this, like, ball of fur – and yeah, no, the face is definitely familiar. She grabs the syringe off Oliver.

I’m like, “What are you doing?”

She goes, "It'll induce him to vomit," which it mostly certainly does, by the way?

She yanks the dog’s mouth open, squirts the liquid into it, then 60 seconds later the little thing storts spewing his ring – BLEUGH! BLEUGH! BLEEEUUUGH!!! – all over Lauren’s clothes, in her hair, all over the kitchen floor.

It’s not a pretty sight.

Literally, at that moment, Christian walks in, sees his still somehow wife covered in vom, and goes, “What’s going on?”

"Your focking friend," she goes, "hid Easter eggs all over our gorden – for Buster to find."

Christian’s there, “I watched him do it. As soon as he was gone, I went out and picked them all up. Sure chocolate is poisonous for dogs.”

I’m suddenly getting the vibe that it’s time for me to maybe hit the road.

I’m there, “I’ll see you next week for your birthday, Ross Junior.”

The kid goes, “My birthday ith in Theptember, Roth!”

And I’m there, “Hey, even better.”