The old dear's pilchard face is the toast of the viewing nation, and even Miriam is eating out of her hand. But wait - what has she done with her actual name?
I'm sitting in, minding my own business, watching TV, two hands working the Quality Street, when One F texts me and tells me to lash on RTÉ, which I do - and end up regretting it straight away.
Her big pilchard face fills all 48 inches of Fionn's plasma screen and I get this, like, urge to hide behind the sofa and wait until it passes.
She's tarted up to the nines as well, the smelt - Monica John obviously had a visit over Christmas. And Miriam O'Callaghan is all over her, telling her - get this - that, as a woman, she embodies the go-ahead attitude of these Celtic Tiger times.
I think everyone knows how I feel about Miriam O'Callagan but now I'm thinking of crossing her off my To Do list.
"I don't think women were ever held back in this country," the old dear goes. "I think we held ourselves back. I mean, awful as it sounds, there was a type of security - refuge if you like - in the simple drudgery of housework." Housework! We had maids, cleaners, nannies . . . A bottle of her sweat would be worth millions.
She's there, "I like to think, when people - especially women - read my books, they think, yeah, there's no reason why I can't do that too. Well, obviously they can't do it - not as well as I do - but I'd like to think that I help people believe in themselves, even if they are deluded." The audience clap - they actually clap.
"Now," Miriam goes, "as this is a special New Year's programme - 2008 is just around the corner - have you made any resolutions?"
"Well," the old dear goes, "because my publisher is watching, I'd better say, to finish writing my new book . . ." Everyone laughs. Wow - hilarious! I should have worn a corset. I'm going to split my focking sides here.
"Can you give us a sneak preview?" Miriam goes. "I mean, what's it about?" and the old trout's like, "Well, Miriam, it's a book that I think has been waiting to be written in this country. It's a multicultural love story, focusing on the relationship between Trevor, a truck driver from, I don't know, Ballybrack or one of those wretched places, and Nadia, a Romany girl who lives with her extended family on a roundabout on the N3. And the book follows their efforts to form a relationship in spite of the enormous cultural barriers, not to mention the lack of basic sanitation."
"No one can accuse you of ducking the big issues of the day," Miriam goes. "And do you have a title yet?" "I do," she goes. "It's My Beautiful Gypsy Mot." Another round of applause. They'd clap for anything, this crowd.
Miriam's there, "Mot - love the word play. Now, is it true - it could be just newspaper talk - that you're about to follow Cecelia on to the silver screen?"
"I don't want to say too much," she goes, although she already has, if you ask me. "But Colombia Pictures have already bought an option on the rights. It's still early in the day but they're thinking in terms of Alec Baldwin for the truck driver and Katie Holmes as the Romany girl." More clapping - simpletons.
"And just lastly, Fionnuala, because I know you're terribly busy at the moment, but my female friends would simply kill me if I didn't ask you for your secret - how do you keep yourself looking so young and so beautiful?" What? The woman's so ugly she has to focking sneak up on the mirror.
"Botox," she goes - straight out with it like that. "I don't mind admitting that I've had one or two little procedures done as well. I'm quite open about it. I said it in this week's edition of TV Now - I look on it as augmenting nature's work . . ."
But it's the next thing that sends my blood actually cold. Miriam turns to the audience and goes, "Ladies and gentlemen - Fionnuala O'Carroll."
I sit there for, like, ages, we're talking frozen to the actual spot, my mouth wide open, an orange chocolate crunch dribbling down my chin, wondering did I hear that right, or did the sound go, right at the end there.
Then my phone storts going ballistic, we're talking text after text. First One F. Then JP. Then Sorcha. Then Oisinn. Same text from everyone. Fionnuala O'Carroll? Deep down, I know what it means but I still end up ringing her. It's, like, I can't not? She's obviously in the green room because I can hear her dirty big gin laugh when she answers.
I don't give her any of the usual pleasantries. I'm like, "I can't believe a plastic surgeon did that to you - I hope you're suing. You could take him for millions with that face."
"Oh, Ross," she goes, "it's you," like it's a major chore to have to talk to me.
I'm like, "For the first 20 minutes of the interview, I thought it was someone mooning. Everyone did - they crashed the focking switchboard with all the complaints." "Ross, what do you want?" she goes. "I'm trying to enjoy a drink."
I'm there, "What's with this dropping one of your barrels? Fionnuala O'Carroll - what's the Jack?"
"Kelly is your father's name, Ross. I wanted to keep my maiden name when we got married. The hyphenation was your father's idea . . ." I'm like, "And now?"
"And now . . . Well, with all the publicity there's been - I mean, jail, Ross - my new agent thought that even the name Kelly could, well, hurt my career."
I'm there, "You hatchet-faced, old..." "Look," she goes, practically jumping down my throat. "My marriage to your father is over. In fact, Ross - I didn't want to tell you this, didn't want to ruin your Christmas - but your father and I are getting divorced. The wheels are in motion. So it's something you'll have to get used to." I'm so in shock, I can hordly think straight. I'm there, "You know? I'm going to give you a taste of your own medicine."
"Don't be childish," she goes.
I'm like, "No, no - you're, like, dropping the Kelly from your name. That's Kool Plus Coterie - as in, no sweat off my nose? But you know what I'm going to do - I'm going to drop the O'Carroll from my name."
"Ross," she goes, "I couldn't care one way or the other."
I'm like, "No, don't try to talk me out of it. It's happening. Ross O'Carroll-Kelly is dead. From this day on, it's just plain old Ross Kelly."