I wouldn't have minded being bound and gagged in a basement - just for some peace and quiet. My wife was up the spout again. My daughter had grown into a mix between Suri Cruise and a Chucky doll. And one or two other chickens - well, birds - were coming home to roost.
Suddenly, I realized what I had to do - go and get Fionn back.
Except what I didn't realize was that Unganga Nanga was no country for old tens.
Dancing with the Tsars is the eighteenth novel in Paul Howard's 'Ross O'Carroll-Kelly' series. Ross books - annual No 1 bestsellers - have sold over one million copies, are annually nominated for the Popular Fiction prize at the Irish Book Awards - where they have won the prize an unprecedented three times - and are also critically acclaimed as satirical masterpieces. One of the series - The Oh My God Delusion - was chosen as Ireland's favourite book in Eason's 125th birthday poll.
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.
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.
Nice gaff, cool cor, plenty of dosh, a stake in Dublin's trendiest nightclub and a face that made boyfriends jealous. To say nothing of a beautiful wife and kids ...
All that remained was for him to totally fock it up:
And I mean, totally ...
But did he see it coming? Of course not - too busy using his killer lines on the Seoige sisters:
And then it hit me, all at once, on a lonely night in the Ice Bar ...
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.