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Since inheriting a pile in Killiney, the author can add a new string to his not inconsiderable (you know what I mean) bow - lord of the manor. This title tells the story of how he tackles his new responsibilities.

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My friend, Fionn, was being held hostage in, I don't know, Unganga Nanga, and the Government was refusing to send in a team of marines to extract him. 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.

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Ross O'Carroll-Kelly is broke and out of love. His wife has gone to America, taking his daughter with him; his mother has become a celebrity chef on daytime television, with a particular skill for handling phallic ingredients; and his father continues to languish in Mountjoy Jail.

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It was no country for young men. Unemployment, emigration and do-it-yourself hair colour kits were once again a fact of life. But the signs for recovery were good for me, at least. I was the chief executive of one of the few businesses turning a profit in this town, a shredding company helping to dispose of the Celtic Tiger's dirty little secrets.

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Fame. Fortune. Screaming girls. The adoration of strangers. I've had it all before, yet nothing could have prepared this Horny Little Devil for his new life in the City of Angels. Sacked as the coach of the Andorra rugby team and on the run from the sister I never knew I had, I decided to head west, vowing to win back my wife and daughter.

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Ross O'Carroll-Kelly thought he knew all he needed to about women's bodies... And now he's getting a biology lesson he could have so lived without ... Sometimes, life just isn't fair to the babe magnet supremo.

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Gives you the low-down on South Dublin - a land which boasts of more yacht clubs per head of population than Monte Carlo, where girls talk like Californians, where rugby is the number one religion and where it's possible to buy a Cappuccino - at Champs Elysee's prices. This work contains what you need to know about this region.

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So, there I was roysh, life focked, reputation focked, finances focked everything completely focked, and roysh. And it's all Fionn's fault, basically. He's the four-eyed focker who told me that, like, the first time you do it, roysh, you're firing blanks. I am seriously beginning to feel like I am the only sane goy in the whole of, like, Dublin.

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Shrewsbury Road has become a ghost estate. Marks and Spencer are selling microwavable coddle. And a Euro discount store is about to open in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre. And he was only unconscious for twenty-four hours. But never mind all that. The main thing is that whoever tried to kill him missed all his vital organs. All his vital organs.

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Ross O'Carroll-Kelly thought he had it all: nice gaff, cool car, 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

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Sportsman, Lover, Bon vivant, and Cad - Ross O'Carroll-Kelly is many things to many people. His accomplishments on the rugby field - and in the bedroom - remain the stuff of legend, but the truth about him remains hidden by the accretion of myth. This title presents an account of Ross' life.

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Throw into the mix a sister missing in Orgentina, a wife struggling to lose the weight from her orse and an interfering father-in-law living under my roof. You can see why, like the Son of God, my life had become a major hassle. And just when I thought it couldn't get any more difficult, a moment of madness involving - what else

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