A no-holds-barred account of a criminal's time in the notorious Dublin prison, as revealed to journalist Paul Howard. This extraordinary life story tells it all.
The desperate lifestyle of a junkie; bullying and savage beatings among the prisoners; ingenious drug-smuggling ploys; the despairing cry for help of a failed suicide attempt. But alongside the pain there is humour -- from the hilarity of World Cup celebrations to the distraction of a beautiful aerobics teacher, from bingeing on altar wine to the shortest-ever "hunger strike".
The first ever glimpse of Mountjoy Prison -- from the inside. Illustrated with black & white photographs.
Don't ask me what they were thinking. I hadn't, like, changed or treated them any differently, but the next thing I know, roysh, I'm out on the streets. Another focking day in paradise for me!
If it hadn't been for Oisinn's apartment in Killiney, the old man paying for my Golf GTI, JP's old man's job offer and all the goys wanting to buy me drink, it would have been, like, a complete mare. Totally. But naturally, roysh, you can never be sure what life plans to do to you next. At least, it came as a complete focking surprise to me ...
The life and times of Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, the cult hero with a weekly column in The Sunday Tribune.
To cap it all, Immaculata, a Nigerian girl whom his wife, Sorcha, has been sponsoring by direct debit for fifteen years, has turned up on his doorstep. Things couldn’t get worse.
But the long road back begins high in the Pyrenees, in the tax haven of Andorra, where Ross must spread the Gospel of rugby to the strange, primitive natives who have only ever heard of soccer, skiing and duty free shopping. There he meets Conchita, a beautiful, sultry psychoanalyst, who persuades him to look inwards and find out what it is that makes him tick. Sorry, thick.
Ross O'Carroll-Kelly is all meat and no preservatives, roysh, at least, that's what it says in the can in, like, one particular south Dublin girls' school, which shall remain nameless, roysh, basically to protect the names of the guilty. You know who you are.
But joining the goys at college wasn't the mare I thought it would be, basically for, like, three major reasons: beer, women and more women. And for once I agree with Fionn about the, like, education possibilities. I mean, where else can you learn about Judge Judy, laminating fake IDs and, like, how to order a Ken and snog a girl at the same time?
I may be beautiful, roysh, but I'm not stupid and this much I totally know: college focking rocks.