We don't think we can improve on the author's own summary of his book:

I am many things, roysh - unbelievable babe magnet, red-hot lover, loyal kind of goy, best forward who never played for Ireland - but there's a few things I was basically sure I'd never be, related to a jailbird for storters, or listening to the old dear getting randier than a goat in heat, or even a father, for that matter. It's funny how life decides to throw you a total hospital pass every now and then. Really, like, hilarious. One minute you're the man, a ledge in his own town, every bird in sniffing distance wanting a piece of the action, and the next ...

Well let's just say if I had gone to Blackrock Morket, roysh, and paid some crusty old crone to tell my future, and she told me all this, I would have said, `Sorry, witch features, but what the fock are you banging on about. I'm Ross O'Carroll-Kelly. I am the man, and I always will be. Roysh!'

I would have been wrong, dude. And we are talking totally here.