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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.
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Written like the great novels of Dickens, in weekly instalments published in the Sunday Tribune, the stories really come together when published in book form. The Curious Incident is the fifth of the series, each one of which is as compelling as the last. As soon as you put it down, you want to get rid of the book - in case having it around makes some of its magic poison (also known as Eau d'Affluence) rub off on you.
One does sense that Mr Howard occasionally sickens of his creation and would like to get rid of him by throwing him off a waterfall in Switzerland. But he's a pro. Instead of doing him in, he takes wilder leaps of imagination and has now created the monster that is Ronan. Utterly unbelievable, yet now central to the stories, this eight-year-old crime boss has entered the world of RO'CK and it is hard to imagine life without him. What next? Will it transpire that Fionnuala grew up on a halting site?
Ross may appear too localised to export, although I have seen him on the shelves in Waterstones in London. But it's only a matter of time before somebody published a glossary for the Brits and the Ozzies, so that they can love him as much as we do at home. It's a fair bet that he will never be understood in the US.
One thing is for sure. In a generation's time, the PhDs in "Anglo Irish literature", as it appears to be known, will not be written about the turgid writings of Banville or Toibin. Ross will still hold sway in the colleges, but not propping up the bar talking about what a ledge he was on the schools rugby field. Roysh?
And you have simply got to get hold of Ross's Twelve Days of Christmas. It's, like, OH migod.
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