I'VE been teaching him to read. The hubbie, that is. And not just bukes. Just so he understands the blurb about Lar on the match day programme.
The Jackeen's coming with me to the All-Ireland hurling final, seeing as his own brethren haven't made it to Croker for All-Ireland day since 1995.
Sure the last time the Dubs were in Croker for a final, we were still using punts, there was no Twitter for GAA stars to trend on, houses cost about what they do now and Fianna Fail was a viable political party.
So if you're going to the final with Kerry, there are some things you Jackeens need to note. Tickets will officially set you back 80 lids - but you'll be lucky to get them for multiples of that. But sure you've had nearly two decades to save up.
Pesto, ciabatta and wheat beers have never been classed as match day fodder.
Have your dinner early so you've a good run at the day. But bring some buttered biscuits, cans of Bulmers, a welly load of sandwiches with a nice bit of ham and chef brown sauce, and some Tayto cheese and onion.
Even if you're only coming across town, pull the car in and eat them out of the boot. Spit into your hands and rub them together before you begin.
To really get down with the spud gobblers, you'll have to channel your inferiority complex and whatever you do, don't shower. Just let loose with a can of Lynx. To get really bogtastic, pull out the Aslan tape and stick in one of Garth Brooks. Before throw in, bless yourself.
Us thatch heads have an anthem you know, for you city folk. It's sung to Blur's In The Country.
'He lives in a flat, a very small flat, he's a Jackeen
Takes all manner of pills, nicks cash from tills, he's a Jackeen.
He doesn't do a thing, wears a sovereign ring, he's a Jackeen.
His sister is worse, keeps spare undies in her purse, she's a Jackeen.'
And yes we know the version about us . . .
'He lives in a house, a very big house, he's a culchie
Puts cabbage on his bread, has a big mutton head, he's a culchie
He doesn't pay tax, he wears dirty kaks, he's a culchie
He only shouts, when he's got Foot n Mouth, he's a culchie. '
Forget about Tamangos where the gang goes; the haunt of GAA heads is Coppers to gather up a bit of loose ball. When we're in here, we'll respond to 'hup hup hup', just like the cattle we hunt with our hurleys. With a bit of luck and no standards, you'll be out of that garda uniform or hoodie before you can say 'awright bud ... ... ..'