Ross O’Carroll-Kelly

So there I was roysh, life focked, reputation focked, finances focked -
everything completely focked, roysh, and we're talking big time.
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. Like an unloaded Uzi -
seriously impressive, hard as fock and totally ready for action, but the safety's, like, on, you know. Well that was a pile of stinking turds for storters. And of course it's muggins here who ends up with the kid - life is SO focking unfair. On top of all that, roysh, the goys stort to, like, totally lose it - JP has gone all Jesus on my orse, Oisinn is basically trying to fock over Interpol and Christian is talking about weddings and, I don't know, love and stuff. I mean, I am seriously beginning to feel like I am the only good-looking, loaded, sane goy in the whole of, like, Dublin.

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly thought he knew all he needed to about women's bodies ...

So there I was, roysh, in a state of basically very blissful ignorance, when suddenly Sorcha's up the Damien and I have to listen to, like, women's stuff.

And now he's getting a biology lesson he could have SO lived without ...

I am telling you, roysh, I never even knew nipples could crack and I was very happy not knowing it. I mean, all I knew about the whole scenario was six seconds of seriously good loving, and now I'm basically expected to be an expert on how to, like, breathe like Dorth Vader and deal with baby turds.

Sometimes, life just isn't fair to the babe magnet supremo ...

This is SO not good for my rep - but do you think Sorcha even, like, cares about that? Not focking likely!

The incomparable, irredeemable Ross O'Carroll-Kelly gives the ultimate low-down on the centre of the universe, South Dublin - a land of untold beauty and wealth, which boasts 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. The Ross Guide to South Dublin contains all you need to know about this extraordinary region, where it'll be soon be too expensive for anyone to live.

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly thought he had it all:

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 ...

Sportsman. Lover. Bon vivant. Cad. Ross O'Carroll-Kelly is many things to many people. But ten years after he lifted the Leinster Schools Senior Cup, Ireland's most beloved rogue remains one of its most misunderstood figures. 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.

Now, for the first time, the lid is lifted on the enigma that is South Dublin's most eligible married man. In more than a hundred interviews with his family and friends - those who've loved him, hated him and slept with him - the first ever composite portrait of the Celtic Tiger's most famous cub emerges.

From the mother who didn't want him to the father who wanted him too much, from the friends who shared his misadventures to the women who shared his bed - or, failing that, a back alley or bus shelter - this searingly honest biography fills in all the blanks in the life of the self-styled Cock of Foxrock.

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.

To cap it all, Immaculata, a Nigerian girl whom 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.

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 from a risk assessor predicting economic doom for the world. Imagine my shock when I discovered that my old dear, on a nationwide book tour, was already busy charming America out of its collective elasticated pants.

With Trevion, a 1991 Gulf War-veteran-turned-celebrity-Svengali, on my side, not to mention my brand new bromance with a gym instructor called Harvey, I was determined to become more famous than even her. But one nose job and one abdominal resculpt later, I no longer knew where reality ended and reality TV began ...

That risk assessor ex of Sorcha's turned out to be right - it really was the end of the world as we knew it ...

See, I thought the porty was going to last forever. I certainly didn't believe the current economic blahdy blah was going to affect people like me. But as I watched the shutters fall, one by one, on all my old haunts - Renards, Mint, Guess Meanswear - I was forced to question all the truths that I once held as sacred.

Sorcha's boutique was bleeding me dry, the Deportment of Social Welfare had stuck two yahoos in the penthouse next door, while Oisinn - his business empire in ruins - hadn't been seen since he porked his cor at Dublin Airport and took off for who knows where.

'Isn't it wonderful?' the old man went. 'Times like these, they bring out the best in people like us.'

But just when I thought the recession couldn't get any worse, an unexpected twist in the tale threatened to take away the most precious thing in the world to me.

It was no country for young men. Or women ...

Unemployment, emigration and do-it-yourself hair colour kits were once again a fact of life. Taxes were on the up, the IMF were on the way and there was a cash for gold outlet in Foxrock Village.

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. And I was getting plenty of love action - as the boy-toy of an attractive sixty-year-old woman who was totally rolling in it. I never imagined myself ending up as a gigolo. But, as the saying goes, where there's a will, there's a way-hey-hey!

With presents galore, sex on demand and a hot meal on the table every night, life was storting to look up again. All I had to do to aovid focking it up was to keep my chinos buttoned. And, well, you can probably guess how that went.

I woke up from a coma to a country that had changed beyond recognition and the gords waiting to talk to me.

They were obviously pretty interested in finding out who shot me. The problem was that I couldn't actually remember. The entire incident was a basic blank.

The good news was that whoever pulled the trigger had missed my vital organs by inches - including the most vital one of all. I decided there and then that I wasn't going to waste another minute of my life. There were thousands of beautiful women out there who had never known the pleasure of my company - and that was going to change, the minute my wounds healed.

But the path to hot love seldom runs smoothly. I had problems to deal with. A daughter who hated my basic guts. A son who was growing up way too fast. A soon-to-be-ex-wife who was resorting to increasingly desperate measures to stop the bank from repossessing the house. Oh, and the Gords were having one or two problems believing my story ...

For everyone else things may be shrouded in gloom but amidst the splendour of our Killiney mansion, Honalee, life goes on.

I've decided that it's time to possibly do right by Sorcha and put our marriage back together. Meanwhile my son has hitched his future to a family of commoners, my old dear is involved in a dodgy love affair, and my daughter has turned into an insufferable little madam. Oh, yeah, and I'm about to become a grandfather at 31.

Suddenly I'm wresting with duty, loyalty ... and the thousands of women out there who still desire the pleasure of my company.

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. Pack of focking cauliflower worriers.

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.

At the age of 33, I had three new-born future Ireland internationals to feed, a daughter in need of psychiatric evaluation and a teenage son obsessed with uncovering the shameful secrets of our family's 1916 past.

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.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any more difficult, a moment of madness involving - what else? - the opposite sex persuaded Sorcha that I needed to have the unkindest cut of all.

I was a rugby player with a great future behind me. A 35-year-old father-of-five with an expanding waistline, who was trying to survive the bloody battlefield we call everyday life.

My son was locked in a violent turf war with a rival Love/Hate tour operator, my daughter was in love with a boy who looked like Justin Bieber and my old dear was about to walk up the aisle with a 92-year-old billionaire who thought it was still 1936.

I was, like, staring down the barrel of middle age with the contentment of knowing that I was the greatest Irish rugby player who no one in Ireland had ever actually heard of. Until a chance conversation with an old Jesuit missionary made me realize that it wasn't enough.

I was guided, as if by GPS, to a muddy field in - let's be honest - Ballybrack. And there I finally discovered my destiny - to keep a struggling Seapoint team in Division 2B of the All Ireland League.

Or die trying.

Sorcha had thrown me out of the family home - this time apparently for good. And yet that was the least of my worries ...

My old dear was in prison, accused of murdering her second husband. My sons were showing an unhealthy interest in - someone call social services - soccer! And my daughter wanted everyone to call her Eddie. But don't even go there!

On top of all that, a blond wig discovered in a dusty attic, had given my old man delusions of power. Suddenly, he was running for election, promising to tear up the bailout deal and take Ireland out of Europe. And that's to say nothing of his secret plan for Ireland's second city ...

But shush! Don't mention the wall!

I felt like I was living in a world teetering on the brink ...

Life as a stay-in-bed husband turned out to be a lot more complicated than I expected. My wife was pregnant with a baby that possibly wasn't mine. My old man was engaged in a war with the feminist movement that he was never going to win. And my old dear was making a lot of unexplained trips to Russia.

Throw into the mix an eldest son with a possible sex addiction and three infant sons who were so thick they made me look like Edward Einstein.

I might have actually gone over the edge if it wasn't for the belief of my daughter and the challenge of helping her win the greatest prize that South Dublin has to offer - the Strictly Mount Anville glitter ball.