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.

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Prologue

‘Er . . . run that by me again?’

‘A Divorce Fair,’ he goes. And he’s, like, totally serious.

In the RDS, of all places.

‘Divorce and fair,’ I go. ‘Two words I never thought I’d

hear in the same sentence,’ which you have to admit is a

cracking line. ‘Dude, why?’

Oisinn’s like, ‘Why not? We have wedding fairs, don’t

we? Getting divorced is a bigger step than getting married.

Definitely more expensive . . .’

I stare at the road and say fock-all. Don’t even want to

think about it.

Fionn pipes up then from the back seat. ‘It’s certainly a

step no one should take without the best advice. I think it’s

a great idea.’

Then he goes back to reading an orticle about – get this

– loop quantum gravity.

‘Well,’ Oisinn goes, ‘I can’t claim all the credit. Erika was

the original inspiration.’

Erika. Jesus. Even the mention of her name and I’m

harder than Sebastien Chabal. ‘What’s the, er, connection

there?’ I go, trying not to sound jealous.

He’s like, ‘She just rang me. I think she had the idea when

she was in New York that time. They actually have actual

divorce parties over there . . .’

‘I can understand how they could be quite cathartic,’

Fionn goes. Cathartic? That’s definitely made-up. It’s like

he fills his mouth with Scrabble letters, spits them out

and that’s a word. I don’t pull him up on it, though. The

poor goy’s been through enough this year, what with Aoife

and everything? The word is he’s not going back teaching

either.

‘Erika’s still focked up about her old pair breaking-up,’ I

go. ‘A lot of people would say it’s the reason she’s never

acknowledged her true feelings for me – fear of getting hurt,

blahdy blahdy blah . . .’

They just ignore it.

Oisinn’s like, ‘Two things that Erika knows a lot about –

divorce and partying. So she thought she’d set herself up as

a divorce party-planner. That’s when she rang me.’

I’m there, ‘No offence, Dude, but why you?’

Fionn’s like, ‘Because he’s twenty-six and worth a reputed

twenty-eight million euro. She might have reasoned that he

knew a thing or two about business.’

It’s like, fair enough – I only asked.

‘So,’ Oisinn goes, ‘I helped her set it up. Suddenly, she’s

getting fifty, sixty Ks a time to throw these parties for

people. I would never have believed there was so much

money to be made from other people’s unhappiness. It was

then that we hit on the idea of the Divorce Fair.’

Fionn’s like, ‘Erika’s always had a good head on her

shoulders, though. Very smart girl.’

I’m there, ‘It’s those lips I’d be more interested in. She

could suck the nuts off an alloy,’ and then I’m like, ‘by the

way, who the fock is this J. Oker?’

There’s a cor in front of us doing, like, forty Ks an hour

and refusing to pull into the slow lane. It’s supposed to be

the Stillorgan dualler. I’m there, ‘Oisinn, flash your lights

at him.’

He’s like, ‘Ross, it’s a cop car,’ like that means something.

I’m there, ‘Two Honours in the Leaving gets you into

Templemore – it doesn’t entitle you to drive like an old-age

pensioner.’

The focking turnip-muncher eventually gets the hint and

lets us pass.

When we get to JP’s gaff, his old man opens the door

and his face lights up like a knacker on the Nightlink when

he sees us. ‘Been too long,’ he goes, a rolled-up copy of,

presumably, Jug gs or Adult Stars in his hand.

I’m there, ‘We thought we’d see did JP fancy driving

around all the local dole offices with us shouting, ‘‘You

focking mendicants!’’ at the people . . .’

‘Excellent,’ he goes. ‘It’s just what he needs.’

Mr Conroy’s never really gotten over the shame of his

son turning his back on a career in property for – of all

things – God. I think when JP had his breakdown and

decided not to, like, join the priesthood after all, his old man

thought two weeks in a darkened room with plenty of hot

7-Up and he’d be back at Hook, Lyon and Sinker before

you could say the spirit of gracious living.

Fionn speaks for us all when he goes, ‘So, how is he?’

‘He’s stopped babbling,’ Mr Conroy goes, leading us

through the house to the kitchen. ‘The Psalms and Leviticus

quotient is definitely down.’ He stops at the window. ‘We’re

still worried about him, though.’

We follow his, like, line of vision out to the gorden, where

JP is wearing – get this – green overalls and digging what

looks very much to me like a hole.

I just blurt it out. ‘Jesus Manual Labour! What the fock is

he doing?’

‘It’s called . . . landscaping,’ he goes. Then he shakes his

head like he thought he’d never have to say the word. ‘He’s

turning that half-acre there into a contemplation garden. My

son with a shovel in his hand. If this gets out, I won’t be

able to hold my head up in the Oval Office in Shanahan’s

again.’

‘Fock!’ I go and I look at Oisinn and Fionn for, like,

back-up? ‘You can’t say that that’s right. That goy went to

Castlerock – that used to mean something in this town.’

‘I don’t see anything wrong with it,’ Fionn goes. ‘I mean,

if it helps him find inner peace . . .’

Glasses. Ridiculous. I have to actually bite my tongue,

though.

Oisinn puts his hand on Mr Conroy’s shoulder. At least

he can see how much this is tearing him up inside. ‘Look,

we saw a lot of this shit at school. Taking a year out after

the Leaving to work for, like, non-profit organizations –

Simon, St Vincent de Paul, that whole crew. They all copped

on when they found out how much do-ray-me there was in

fund management.’

At last – someone’s talking sense. It seems to do the trick

as well because suddenly Mr Conroy perks up. ‘So you think

this is purely temporary?’ he goes.

Oisinn’s like, ‘Look, trust me – six months and he’ll be

back at his desk, using pictures of women drinking champagne

and men putting on cufflinks to sell people homes in

some ant farm on the M50.’

Mr Conroy shakes his head, the smile back on his boat.

‘So it’s not all doom and gloom then . . .’

It’s not. Oisinn’s talking total sense. But still, seeing the

goy I know as one of Ireland’s greatest ever fullbacks at

underage level holding – of all things – a work tool totally

weirds me out of it, and when we go out to the gorden I

end up approaching him with my hands up, as if to say,

basically, stay calm, we come in peace.

‘Hey, Ross,’ he goes, apparently delighted to see me.

‘Fionn, Oisinn – this is a surprise . . .’