‘And Jake? I love you, kiddo. But you’re smoking too much weed. Unless you’re s . . . s . . . secretly staring in a reality TV show called Hash in the Attic. So, here’s the sermon. Verily I say unto you, either knuckle down at your apprenticeship or leave home. I mean, do you have any idea how much you cost? You wolf down food as though you’re a slave in Egyptian times, bolstering yourself for a day of heavy pyramid building. Out the door by twenty-four. That’s the motto. The Bank of Mum and Dad is shutting up s . . . s . . . shop.’

I felt my elbows gripped in a vice-like hold and slowly realised that I was now flanked by my brothers-in-law.

‘Ah, Scott and Alessandro! Do you know what we call you behind your back, Scott? “I’ve Got Scott”. As soon as you meet someone, you’re like, “I’ve got a boat . . . I’ve got a new SUV . . . I’ve got a waterfront home . . . I’ve got a dirt bike . . . I’ve got a jet ski . . .” You’re one of the richest blokes on the peninsula – and we know that because you keep telling us so. Scott’s a human rights lawyer,’ I told the crowd. ‘You’ve probably heard him jauntily talking to his junior all night, saying things like, “So, exactly what kind of electrodes did they use to torture his testicles?” Or “How many dead bodies were exhumed from the mass grave?” And yet, you abuse my s . . . s . . . sister’s human rights all the time, bragging about never having changed a nappy or cooked a meal, you hypocritical dipshit.’

The heady taste of honesty flooded my mouth. How long had it been since I’d let myself say something I really meant?

‘Oh, and meet Alessandro, my other brother-in-law. He’s the Dent Boss. He takes dents out of chassis – we call him “the car whisperer”. But it’s all cash in hand. Everyone knows you do your mates’ drug laundering through your business, Sandro – that’s why we secretly call your garage “the laundromat”. D’you know that?’

My brothers-in-law then attempted to lift me up off my feet and simply carry me off stage. My legs pedalled in the air for a moment, like a cartoon character, before I delivered two quick kicks to their shins.

‘You boys have really got to work on your people skills. It’s my fucking birthday!’

‘That’s enough!’ My mother had now pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She thrust a forefinger up at me as if she might impale me upon it. Her glare was icy enough to turn volcanic ash into snowflakes.

‘Oh, s . . . s . . . sorry, Mum. I stole your limelight. Mrs Ruth Ryan is only happy if people float out of her presence backwards, like flunkies at Buck House.’