Even though Oisinn's been on a bit of a loser, right, when the sun's shining like this, it's easy to feel, I don't know, optimistic about the future?
THIS WOMAN FROM south Dublin has, like, a near-death experience. At the gates of heaven, she meets God, who checks His clipboard and goes, "Your name's not on the list. It's not your time yet."
"Well," she goes, "seeing as I'm here, do you mind me asking how long I'm going to actually live?"
God looks over both shoulders and goes, "I shouldn't really tell you this but you've got, like, ages. You're going to live till you're, like, 85."
The woman's like, "85? Oh my God, that's, like, another 40 years."
God's there, "Well, now that you know, just go and enjoy those years. Do all the things you ever wanted to do."
"Believe me," she goes, "I will."
So she wakes up, roysh, checks herself out of hospital and straight away hits Pamela Scott - drops 10 Ks in there, we're talking all new clobber. The day after that she decides to go for one or two procedures. She gets, like, a tummy tuck, a nose job and her top tens enlorged. Then, when the bandages come off, she gets her eyes lasered, her Taylor Keith whitened and a new hairstyle.
The next day she's crossing the Stillorgan dualler at Foxrock Church and she gets hit by a 46A. So she wakes up inside the gates of heaven this time and she goes looking for Himself. When she finds Him, she's like, "What's the story - you said I was going to live for another 40 years."
And God goes, "Oops, sorry - I didn't recognise you!"
I don't actually get it, roysh, but I end up laughing anyway, mainly because Oisinn and Fionn are laughing and I don't want to look like the thick one. And also because it's good to see JP - two years after dropping out of Maynooth - finally seeing the funny side of that whole God thing.
It's weird, roysh, but I expected this place to be, I don't know, more sombre, if that's even a word.
It's actually not bad. We're sitting in, like, a day room, with magnolia-coloured walls and framed pictures of, like, humpback whales and mountain climbers and, underneath, shit like, "Ambition - aspire to climb as high as you can dream," and other lines that only Shayne Ward can pull off with a straight face.
There's a set of French doors, roysh, opening out into a little gorden, or - as the brochure for the Serenity Behavioural Health and Addiction Services Centre in Wicklow calls it - an Introspection Space. For the next 120 days, this will be Oisinn's home.
"The problem with internet poker," he goes, "is that you never know who you're playing against. Could be three goys sitting together in an internet cafe in Beijing. Could be one of these sharks who set the alarm for 5am to catch you at the end of the night when you're tired or mullered or just reckless.
"The thing is, I only thought I had a problem with gambling when I storted losing. I realise now I had a problem with it when I was winning as well.
"You know what? I'm still playing hands as I'm sitting here talking to you. I close my eyes and all I see are clubs and spades . . . " Fionn's like, "So what do you do in here then?" "Lot of therapy - one on one, group, family. Treks in the countryside. Yoga . . . " "Yoga?" I go. "Jesus!" It's suddenly getting heavy. Oisinn suggests we go outside. It's a scorcher today. First day of the summer, you could say.
We end up sitting around, shooting the shit, just like the old days. We talk about Munster and how - weird as it sounds - it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if they ended up beating Toulouse. We talk about Samantha Libreri and how I might get her phone number. And we talk about the old days.
JP says it's Fehily's anniversary next week and we all have a little chuckle at the memory of him playing those old Hitler 45s to us before we went out onto the pitch. Fionn says the goy never stopped believing in Hitler's vision of a federal Europe run by unelected bureaucrats, with its nerve centre in Berlin, and everyone driving around in big German cars. Alas, it wasn't to be.
I look at the goys and I think of all the shit we've been through the last couple of years. JP and the priesthood. Fionn losing Aoife. Me and, well, everything. And now Oisinn. But when the sun's shining like this, it's easy to feel, I don't know, optimistic about the future? JP asks me if I've seen Sorcha. I tell him no but I did see Cillian coming out of a restaurant in Donnybrook with a bird who wasn't her.
That gets their attention. "I presume you're going to tell her?" Fionn goes. See, he's always had, like, a soft spot for Sorcha.
"Hennessy thinks I shouldn't. Says that the best thing that could happen would be for Sorcha to get married. Save me a fortune, blah, blah, blah."
"But you're not sure?" Fionn goes.
I'm there, "It's just him. I mean, he's never even played rugby . . . " The goys all shake their heads.
"I mean, Sorcha needs, like, a real man. A protector. You know what a total sap she can be sometimes. Like when she watches a scary movie? I remember I took her to see that Jurassic Pork - the second, maybe the third one. Anyway, she ended up having nightmares for weeks afterwards. She'd wake up in the middle of the night screaming. And I was the one she rang.
"I was the one on the end of the phone, explaining to her that there's no such thing as dinosaurs, that they're just, like, a Hollywood invention." Of course this is the funniest thing the goys have ever heard. They're suddenly laughing so much that a member of staff has to come over and remind us that we're sitting in the Introspection Space.
Then JP goes, "You know, I've just realised, as a practising Catholic, I actually agree with him," and then they're suddenly cracking their holes laughing again.
And then I stort. Oops, sorry, I didn't recognise you. I get it now.
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