Katie Flynn is the pen name of the much-loved writer, Judy Turner, who published over ninety novels in her lifetime. Judy's unique stories were inspired by hearing family recollections of life in Liverpool during the early twentieth century, and her books went on to sell more than eight million copies. Judy passed away in January 2019, aged 82. 
 
The legacy of Katie Flynn lives on through her daughter, Holly Flynn, who continues to write under the Katie Flynn name. Holly worked as an assistant to her mother for many years and together they co-authored a number of Katie Flynn novels. 
 
Holly lives in the north east of Wales with her husband Simon and their two children. When she's not writing she enjoys walking her dog Tara in the surrounding countryside, and cooking forbidden foods such as pies, cakes and puddings! She looks forward to sharing many more Katie Flynn stories, which she and her mother devised together, with readers in the years to come.

Katie Flynn

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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.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress

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.

Mr S and the Secrets of Andorra's Box

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 ...

This Champagne Mojito is the Last Thing I Own

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 ...

Rhino What You Did Last Summer

A love affair born in rural Ireland! Two mismatched lovers, locked in a relationship that will change both of them . . . forever! 
 
 Ross O'Carroll-Kelly was brought up to believe that Gaelic games were invented for people too stupid to understand the laws of rugby. Little did he know that one day he would become a legend of Kerry football. 
 
 But then, his life has taken a lot of unexpected twists and turns. 
 
 His father is the Taoiseach of the country. His wife is an actual Government Minister. And his suddenly teenage daughter is heading for the Gaeltacht - and her very first rugby boyfriend. 
 And then there's Marianne . . . 
 
 Of course, Ross was too busy becoming a Gaelic football star to realise that his family - like the entire country - was being pushed towards a cliff edge. And he was the only man capable of saving Ireland's democracy. 
 
 Which is just like, 'Fooooooock!'

Normal Sheeple

'The name's O'Carroll-Kelly. Ross O'Carroll-Kelly.' 
 
As the great James Bond said, 'History isn't kind to men who play God.' How right the dude ended up being. 
 
My secret double-life was finally catching up with me. Sorcha wanted a divorce. I was facing jail time for taking my orse out in a pub in Cork. And there was a very good chance that my sister-in-law's surrogate baby was actually mine? One by one, all of the goys turned their backs on me. Then came an unexpected plot twist. From beyond the grave, Fr Fehily - the M and the Q to our Leinster Schools Senior Cup-winning team - sent us all on one final mission . . . To walk the Camino - or die trying! 
 
It's, like, double oh fock!

Camino Royale

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!

Braywatch

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!

Should Have Got Off at Sydney Parade

The No 1 Bestseller! 
 
When a shameless rugby legend and a distinguished grey lady get together sparks are bound to fly. 
 
And when that legend is South Dublin's favourite socialite, Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, and the grey lady is the Irish Times, the result is, well, legendary. From locked-in in Donnybrook to locked-down in Killiney, Ross and the old gal have been through a lot. Now, you can enjoy the very best of his efforts to keep her entertained . . . 
 
- His adventures with the Mount Anville Moms WhatsApp group 
- His daughter Honor's infamous production of South Side Story 
- His father's court battles with Denis O'Brien 
- His wife Sorcha's efforts to force her banana bread on the neighbours 
- His son Ronan's attempt to make it as a Mixed Martial Arts fighter 
 
From the sheer joy of taking his feral triplets to their first Ireland v. England match, to the sheer misery of Kiely's pub (his spiritual home) closing down, to the pants-shitting tension of taking Honor to Electric Picnic - they're all here! 
 
And this new edition includes all new material from 2021 - lest we forget! 
 
As the Grey Lady herself would no doubt say: 'That was some ride, Ross!' 
 
 
 ______________________________ 
 
 'The single greatest chronicler of our times' Irish Independent 
 
'A terrific collection' Pat Kenny, Newstalk

RO’CK of Ages

From boom days to Zoom days

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

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.

Seedless in Seattle

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.

We Need To Talk About Ross

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

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.

NAMA Mia!

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!

Operation Trumpsformation

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.

South Dublin - How to Get by on, Like, 10,000 Euro a Day

It looked like it was Game Over for the Rossmeister General. 
I was staring down the barrel of the big four-oh! And what did I have to show for it? 
 
I was an out-of-work rugby coach who was soon to be divorced. My old dear was sliding away in a nursing home in a certain suburb of West Dublin. And my old man had brought the country to the verge of, like, nuclear annihilation. 
 
And if that wasn’t bad enough, my teenage daughter was in love again. My sister-in-law was about to give birth to a baby that was possibly mine. And Castlerock College was about to go – I can’t even say the word – co-ed. 
 
People kept saying that we were facing Ormageddon. But I was like, ‘Hey, it’s not the end of the world.’ 
 
Because Father Fehily used to say, ‘Sometimes good things come to an end so that better things can come to a beginning.’

Don’t Look Back in Ongar

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.

Downturn Abbey

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.

Dancing with the Tsars

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

Once Upon a Time in . . . Donnybrook

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