We're all guilty of it. You know what I'm talking about. You go to see somebody else's house and you suddenly realise how shite your own place is by comparison. Well, I got that feeling yesterday while taking a tour of the Palace of Versailles in the company of, let's just call them, the usual suspects – a member of the FAI staff and a member of the officer board.

“It’s some size of a gaff,” the staff member said. “Some size of a gaff.”

He wasn’t wrong. The Palace of Versailles is a mighty place. Walking around it, I had to keep reminding myself to close my mouth. The others weren’t much impressed, though.

"I don't know, is it nearly too big?" the officer said. "Certainly for herself and meself – you know, with the kids all moved away. You'd never be done hoovering a house like this."

“Hoovering?” I said. “Is that really what you see when you look around a palace like this, the housework you’d have to do?”

“That and what it’d cost to heat it.”

The other fella was worse. “What is it that you love so much about it?” he wanted to know. “Is it all the pictures on the wall, is it?”

“Pictures?” I said. “They’re called paintings, you ignoramus. I’ve got to stop hanging around with you two.”

“Well, whatever they’re called. If this was my house, I’d take half of them down. It’s creepy having that many sets of eyes looking at you. Especially that one over there. In fact, that’s where I’d hang the plasma.”

“A television,” the officer announced confidently, like he was about say something of great importance, “is actually better than a picture, because – think about it – what you’re looking at changes all the time. And you can also get the racing on it.”

You see, this is why I actually prefer the company of the IRFU fellas. At least they’ve a bit of culture about them. They know about art and classical musical and architecture and good cognac. Not like these two sons-of-gobdaws.

“Here, have you ever noticed,” the officer said, staring at a priceless work in front of him, “how the women in these kinds of pictures always have massive. . . I’m trying to think of the politically correct word here – diddies? You’d have to wonder, was it wishful thinking on the part of the artist or did they just choose not to paint the flat-chested?”

"Lads," I said, "you have absolutely no – what the French like to call – je ne sais quoi ."

“No,” the staff member said, “the Irish have a thing called nìl a fhios agam. And nìl a fhios agam what the f**k we’re still doing here? We’ve been around this place must be five times already.”

"Sometimes," I said, "I feel like a top rugby administrator trapped in the body of a top football administrator," and then I took my leave of them, left them standing there like a couple of milk-white tourists while I found a chaise on which to sit and – as the fella said – appreciate.

Different approach

After two or three minutes of that, I pulled my phone out of my bum-bag and you can probably guess what was going through my mind. I phoned Anouk, an interior designer – half-Finnish, if you can imagine such a thing – who’s supposed to be redecorating my office in Abbotstown while I’m over here.

“Hello – hello, can you hear me?” she said. “I am in Ikea.”

“Howiya, Anouk,” I replied. “Listen, you may forget about Ikea.”

“Forget about Ikea? But you have marked what you like in the catalogue.”

“Well, now I’m saying forget about it. I’ve had a rethink. I’m going for a different approach.”

“What is your approach now?”

“Brace yourself. I’ve decided to get whole building done – top to bottom, right? I want mirrors all the way in.”

“Mirrors? In the reception?”

"That's right. If you get out your iPad thing there, go onto Google and type in galerie des glaces – I hope I'm saying that right – and you'll see what way I'm thinking. I want chandeliers everywhere. And big mirrors – floor to ceiling. With gold on them. Gold all over the place, in fact. And what do you call those statues with no legs? They're like a normal statue except just from the shoulders up."

“They are called busts.”

“The very word! I want loads of them. And pictures everywhere.”

“Pictures?’

“Paintings! I meant to say paintings, but I’m hanging around with – never mind. Half-thicks, bringing my IQ down is what I’m trying to say.”

“What kind of paintings do you want?”

"Ones by proper artists. Not f**king messers. Louis. Louis le Something. People who sound like they know what they're at. Again, Google's your man. Put in 'appartement du roi ' – Roi with an I, not a Y– and you'll see how I want my office to look."

"Okay, I have just typed in galerie des glaces ."

“And what do you think? Can you picture Philip Browne’s f**king face when he walks in and sees that? Which is the working man’s game now?”

She laughed.

“To do something like this,” she said, “it will cost millions and millions of euros.”

“Okay,” I said, “and what did I say the budget was?”

“You said six-hundred euros.”

My heart sank. “Right,” I said.

Puppy dogs

I heard a squeal on the other end of the phone then. Anouk was excited about something. “There is a poster here,” she said. “It is a picture of a little puppy dog who looks like he is giving a high-five. In capital letters, it says, ‘WHO’S AWESOME?’ and then underneath it says, ‘You’re awesome!’”

“I belong in a palace like this,” I said. I was on the point of tears – I could hear it in my own voice. “Do you ever feel like that, Anouk, like you were born in the wrong place, at the wrong time?”

“The reception here is not so good,” she said. “Will I get the picture of the puppy dog?”

“Get the picture of puppy dog,” I said. “I like puppy dogs and I like the message.”

“And the other bits?”

“Yeah, you might as well get the other bits as well.”