So it turns out Dirty Dave's lovechild, Felipe, comes from Dave's liason in 1987 with a young Spanish girl called Yolanda.

Dave picks up the story.

"So there I was walking past the Gresham Hotel, whistling 'Sign o' the Times' by Prince, wearing a deadly polyester-linen combo suit I'd gotten at Unique Boutique on Liffey Street, when a young woman came flying out the door and landed on her arse.

'Holy shite', I thought to myself. So I went over to help her up.

'Y'all right there, love?', says I.

'Jes, I am marrrrvellous', she says.

'Ahh, fair enough', I said and carried on. It was only then I realised she might have been being sarcastic so I asked her if that's what it was.

'Noooooo!', she says dramatically. 'I am totally serious.'

I don't need to be told twice so off I went. But something told me I might have been mistaken so I went back and there she was crying.

'Ahh now. What's the matter?'

'I now have no job. Stoopid focking manager he think I am stupid but he don't know nothing, hijo de puta. He fire me because I tell to cusomter 'Don' you focking touch my arse you bastard old pervert. Juh make me seeeck!' and manager tell to me is no way to talk to this man because he own tea shop and I say 'I don' care how many focking tea shop he own he don' touch my arse'. Now I must to go look for other job and this week is my rent and is come at terrible time. Terrible.'

Now, at that time I'd come into a few bob after I collected on the bet I made with Stinking Pete when we were kids. I'd predicted the death of Fred Astaire and Pete said there was no chance of me being right and even gave me a three day window each side of the date. June 22nd I said and fucking bang on June 22nd he died. Pure coincidence of course.That meant Pete had to cough up. Remember that Pete? Deadly, it was. No point sticking your fingers up at me now. Quit living in the past man.

So I offered to give her a hand till she found a new job. I sorted out her rent for her, took her for a slap up feed at Gigs Place and we even had a drink or two. For a little woman she certainly put away the booze. Apparently they're all drunkards in Seville, for that is where she was from, and she told me a bit about her hard life back there.

'Oh Daveeeed, ees a story very difficult and shiny', she said, getting her adjectives mixed up in a way I would come to adore. 'When I am young my family is live on beeg, smelly farm and my father every day he make me go out and milk the bulls and horses. Was terrible, every day to do thees. Also we have many trees of olives and he make me go pick the olives and then hatch olives into oil.'

Her verbs were a little off too. She went on, 'For years I am thinking to escape and to learn the Eeeengleeesh and one day meet an Irish sailor in Seville who is very lost. He tell me Doobleeen is home to many great writers like Brendan Bejam, Jaime Joyce, Samwel Beckett and man who will write hilarious newspaper character about man who pretend to be rich and say 'Roysh' and make much money from same joke over and over. He say me to learn Eeengleeesh I must to go there. So one day I stick out thumb and get lift to Doobleeen.'

She also explained that all the time working in the smelly farm had dulled her sense of smell which is why my distinctive odour wasn't off-putting to her like it is to nearly every other woman in the world. Soon we had become embroiled in a passionate affair like Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity or that boy and the shop dummy in Mannequin.

We did it everywhere. The sofa, the kitchen, the front hall, the Barna shed, the toilets of the Submarine bar in Crumlin, in the back row of the Carlton cinema watching Full Metal Jacket (heh, suck on that Private Pile), her little bedsit in Rathmines, on the banks of the canal in full of everyone drinking outside the Barge and in every alleyway we could find.

She would say 'I love juh so much Daveeeed, we do it like... how do you call those leetel animals with the beeg ears and beeg teeths?'

'Germans?'

'No! Rabbits. Thees. We are like the rabbits!'

It was a wonderful time, probably the best 2 days of my life, but on the third day I went to meet her and she never showed up. I went to her bedsit and knocked on the door but she wasn't there. I checked back every day for a week until I realised she'd gone and I was never going to see her again. For months afterwards I would just find myself walking up Grove Road for no reason hoping against hope that she'd be there but she never was. Jaysus, I still remember that smell she had. Like olive oil and horsespunk.

And I missed her like the deserts miss the rain but I thought it was all over. And I was right. I've never found out why she left the way she did, the way she shattered my heart into a thousand tiny pieces like a glass that has been pushed over and shatters on the floor into a thousand tiny pieces.

Now look, I've got a 19 year old son."

And that's how Dave got his lovechild. For the record the young fella smells like his mother and his father combined.

He's now known as Filthy Felipe.