Paul Howard

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

So there I was, roysh, putting the 'in' in 'in crowd', hanging out, pick of the babes, bills from the old pair to fund the lifestyle I, like, totally deserve. But being a schools rugby legend has its downsides, roysh, like all the total knobs wanting to chill in your, like, reflected glory, and the bunny-boilers who decide they want to be with me and won't take, like, no for an answer. And we're talking totally here. Basically, it may look like a champagne bath with, like, Nell McAndrew, with, like, no clothes and everything, but I can tell you, roysh, those focking bubbles can burst. And when they do ... OH MY GOD! 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.

The Miseducation Years

Dancing with the Tsars

So there I was, roysh, twenty-three years of age, still, like, gorgeous and rich, living off my legend as a schools rugby player, scoring the birds, being the man, when all of a sudden, roysh, life becomes a total mare. I don't have a Betty Blue what's wrong, but I can't eat, can't sleep, I don't even want to do the old beast with two backs, which means a major problem, and we're talking big time here. Normally my head is so full of, like thoughts, but now I'm down to just one: Sorcha, I'm playing it Kool and the Gang, but this is basically scary. I mean, I'm Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, for fock's sake, I don't do love.

PS, I Scored the Bridesmaids

Alan Clarke

'So there I was, roysh, enjoying college life, college birds and, like, a major amount of socialising.' Can Ross survive outside Castlerock College?

The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years

THE NUMBER ONE BESTSELLER Ireland, Ireland - no longer standing Dáil ... Leinster House had been burned to the ground. All that was left was a smouldering ruin and the blackened remains of an Irish flag. The old man was trying to pin the blame on Brussels, but I knew the actual truth? Unfortunately, Sorcha was too angry with me for having sex with our daughter's Irish teacher to listen. But I had, like, other irons in the - pordon the pun - fire. I'd just become Head Coach of the Ireland rugby team - albeit, women. The country might well have been focked. But very soon, we had everyone believing in fairy tales again. And it all happened once upon a time in . . . Donnybrook _______ 'Ross is a national institution' Irish Times 'In a league of his own' Business Post

Once Upon a Time in . . . Donnybrook

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.

Game of Throw-Ins

South Dublin's favourite son thought he could face any challenge - until he was asked to cross the bridge over the River Dargle. For Ross O'Carroll-Kelly - schools rugby hero, celebrated bon vivant and lover of beautiful women - life has suddenly become complicated. His father has been accused of rigging a General Election, his seventy-year-old mother is about to bring six surrogate babies into the world, and his daughter is being hailed as 'Ireland's answer to Greta Thunberg', telling everyone who cares to listen that the end of the world is nigh. As if that wasn't bad enough, the Greatest Rugby Player Never to Play for Ireland has a nagging sense that he has to more to contribute to the beautiful game. Now he's been offered a job coaching an underachieving school who've been waiting almost a century for their moment of glory. The challenge is to persuade a collection of jokers, chokers and forty-a-day smokers that they have what it takes to win the Leinster Schools Senior Cup. The only drawback ... the school is in Bray! Praise for the Ross O'Carroll-Kelly series: 'Ross is a national institution ... wicked humour and sharp observation' Irish Times 'One of the funniest writers in the land' Irish Independent 'Extraordinarily accurate and outstandingly funny' Sunday Business Post

Braywatch

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 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.

Mr S and the Secrets of Andorra's Box

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.

The follow-up to 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress', 'Should Have Got Off at Sydney Parade' finds Ross O'Carroll-Kelly dealing with the trials of parenthood.

Should Have Got Off at Sydney Parade

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 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.

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.

Back in the day, if you'd mentioned the Grey Lady of D'Olier Street to me, I would have thought you were referring to one of the middle-aged divorcees I occasionally pulled on Disco Throwback Nights in Leggs. If you'd told me that I would one day spend thirteen years with that grey lady, I would have guessed it was some scheme I'd cooked up to try to get my hands on some elderly widow's fortune. Except the Grey Lady in this case is the Irish Times. And thirteen years is exactly the length of time I've been pleasuring here - though for far less money than I'd have earned as a gigolo, believe me! We've been through a lot together in that time - from locked-in in Donnybrook to locked-down in Killiney. And now, for the very first time, the best of my weekly newspaper columns have been brought together in a collection. My adventures with the Mount Anville Moms WhatsApp group. My old dear's fight to stop the Luas lines being joined. Honor's infamous production of South Side Story. My old man's court battles with Denis O'Brien. Sorcha's efforts to force her banana bread on the neighbours. Ronan's attempt to make it as a Mixed Mortial Orts fighter. Not to mention a Chinese exchange student by the name of Pang. From the sheer joy of taking the triplets to their first Ireland v England match, to the sheer misery of Kielys closing down. From the nerve-shredding excitement of trying, to rescue Joey Corbery from Limerick, to the pants-shitting tension of taking Honor to Electric Picnic. They're all here! As the Grey Lady herself would no doubt say: "That was some ride, Ross!" ______________________________ 'Ross is a national institution' Irish Times 'The single greatest chronicler of our times' Irish Independent

From boom days to Zoom days

RO’CK of Ages

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, The Miseducation Years

That risk assessor ex of Sorcha's turned out to be right the author argues - it really was the end of the world as we knew it. He explains how he thought the party was going to last forever but now everything appears to be closing. This book gets to grip with the recession.

The Oh My God Delusion

'One of the funniest writers in the land ... Schmidt Happens will be lapped up by fans' Irish Independent I've had some pretty bad New Year's Eves in my life. But this one was officially... The! Worst! Ever! My wife had just given birth to a baby that wasn't mine. My son had just walked out on his bride-to-be on the eve of their wedding. And my old dear was making threats of revenge against me for allowing her to choke on the olive from her breakfast Martini. Throw into the mix three infant sons who were banned from every public park and children's play centre in the city; a father who was working with dodgy Russian business interests to put himself in the Taoiseach's office; and a daughter who was about to do something truly shocking - even by her standards. But then, one day, totally out of the blue, I received a very unexpected phone call... And let's just say that Schmidt got real. 'Ross is a national institution, and his adventures continue to chart the foibles and fortunes of modern-day Dublin with wicked humour and sharp observation' Irish Times 'Hilarious' Woman's Way

Schmidt Happens

A love affair born in rural Ireland! Two mismatched lovers, locked in a relationship that will change both of them ... forever! From the day I was born, I was brought up to believe that Gaelic games were invented for people too stupid to understand the laws of rugby. Little did I know that one day I would become a legend of Kerry football. But then my life has taken a lot of unexpected twists and turns. My old man is, like, the Taoiseach of the country. My wife is an actual Minister in his Government. And my suddenly teenage daughter is heading for the Jailtacht - and her very first rugby boyfriend. And then there's Marianne ... Of course, I was too busy becoming a Gaelic football stor to realise that my family - like the entire country - was being pushed towards a cliff edge. And I was the only man capable of saving Ireland's democracy. Which is just like, 'Fooooooock!' 'Ross is a national institution' Irish Times 'When the literary history of the 21st century is written, it will record that a cartoon rugger bugger stole the hearts of the Irish people' Sunday Times

Normal Sheeple

This is another instalment of the misadventures of Ross O'Carroll-Kelly - a hysterical satire of beer, bonking and rugby!

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress

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.

Keeping Up with the Kalashnikovs

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. 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.

Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

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