Irish Fiction

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.

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.

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.

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.

'The name's O'Carroll-Kelly. Ross O'Carroll-Kelly.'

So there I was, roysh, class legend, schools rugby legend, basically all-round legend, when someone decides you can't, like, sit the Leaving Cert four times. Well that put a focking spanner in the works. The second, like, un-focking-missable book from Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

'An instantly gripping page-turner' Sunday Independent Life Magazine. **Shortlisted for Sunday Independent Newcomer of the Year at the An Post Irish Book Awards 2021**