His readers want to know more about his origins – and his publisher just wants him do some work – so ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY has produced a biography. In this extract, his ghostwriter describes how Ross was persuaded to reveal the man behind the myth

ONE SUNDAY MORNING, it wasn’t too long ago, I paid €12 for a loaf of bread. It had caraway seeds in it. I sawed off two slices, ate one, picked at the other and three days later dumped what was left into the bin. I only mention it because telling your guilty tales of excess is suddenly in fashion. Everyone is at it. You’ve got to have a story that demonstrates how you, too, slightly lost the run of yourself during the good times.

One woman, who doesn’t wish to be named, paid €400 for a Barbara Cosgrove Blanche lamp in mustard, which, it turned out, jarred angrily with the colour scheme in her front living room. So she put the lamp, not in a discreet corner where it wouldn’t be seen, not even in the hidden dark of the attic – she put it in a skip, then went back to Brown Thomas and bought another one, this time in ochre and brilliant vermilion.

My favourite story, though, is the man who pulled on a pair of jeans he hadn’t worn for more than a year and discovered €600, neatly folded, in the front pocket. Imagine not missing €600.

On and on, they keep coming, conga-lines of listeners, phoning in to bare their souls. “An orangerie, Joe . . . it’s the same as a conservatory, except 20 grand dearer . . .” Ireland is headed for what could be a long and hard period of recession.

Construction is grinding to a halt, house prices are plummeting fast and the emigrant airbuses are filling up again. For 10 years we lived the high life, though I’m not sure we were ever entirely happy at that altitude. Some inner guilt inside us. The consensus this morning is that a period of austerity would be good for our souls.

I switch off the radio, kill the engine.

Perhaps the worst money anyone spent during what will be remembered as the Celtic Tiger was the six-figure sum that Penguin Ireland paid Ross O'Carroll-Kelly to write a book called 1,001 Birds You Must Knob Before You Die. After three years and twice as many deadline extensions, the project was scaled back to a less ambitious 501 birds. By the beginning of September 2008 he had completed only short, albeit graphically illustrated, profiles of Kristin Kreuk, Jessica Biel, Olga Kurylenko, Vanessa Hudgens and Lisa Scott Lee. None was considered publishable due to reasons of decency.

Ross made a rather better fist of spending his advance, however, making a down payment on the apartment I’m about to visit, the penthouse of a very fetching block overlooking the dual carriageway in Stillorgan.

I rap three times on the door and wait.

The Grange was billed as South Dublin’s most prestigious new address.

While it was under construction, the large wooden hoardings that hid it, like Christmas wrapping, from the view of passing commuters proclaimed, in bold, six-feet-high capitals, “The Spirit of Gracious Living” – a piece of gibberish worthy of Edward Lear and yet a phrase that beautifully captured the essence of the times.

Who cares what it means? Just borrow the money and buy it.

The door is answered by a short, whey-faced girl, 18, maybe 19, pretty in a perfunctory sort of way, wearing nothing but a men’s shirt and regulation Uggs. She regards me with a look of huffy boredom until I mention that I’m Ross’s friend and the man who writes his books for him, and suddenly she can’t do enough for me. “I’m thinking of making French toast for breakfast,” she says sunnily, taking my coat, “with actual vanilla pods. I’m Etain, by the way . . .” She air-kisses me on both cheeks and I tell her I’m fine for French toast, thank you.

Ross is in the living room, playing some shoot-’em-up on a giant plasma-screen television, well into his third Heineken of the morning if the evidence on the coffee table is anything to go by.

When he sees me, he holds up an open palm and says, “I’ve got a high-five here with someone’s name on it!” I gratefully accept it. He tells me that I’m the man and perhaps I mention, once or twice, that, no, he’s the man.

“So, what have you been up to?” he says. “Spending all that money you made off my back?”

“The usual,” I tell him. “Burnishing your legend around town.”

I sit down. He studies me, taking in every detail. “You certainly haven’t been spending it on clothes,” he says. “How did you get past the concierge dressed like that?”

I laugh – it's all you cando when Ross has you in his crosshairs.

“Seriously, Dude, there’s a bag of my old clothes in the airing cupboard. I was going to send them down to Barnardos. Take one or two things out and wear them if you’re going to insist on coming here.”

“That’s you, Ross – generous to a fault.”

“Well, your need is greater than Barnardos, believe me.”

I ask him what he’s been doing.

“Fock all,” he says proudly, which is what I suspected. Ross hasn’t worked since his brief spell coaching the national rugby team of Andorra, and that was almost two years ago. He did spend the guts of a year in California, to be close to Sorcha, his estranged wife, and their daughter, Honor. But most of his days since then, I imagine, have passed rather like this one.

“I’ve had, like, a few offers?” he says, standing up to check himself out in a huge mirror over the artificial fireplace. “There’s a lot of teams out there want me.”

His hand traces the torsion of his abdominal and pectoral muscles through his shirt. “Hey,” he says, turning to me quickly, “you might know this – is there an actual country called Luxembourg?”

“I’m about 72 per cent certain there is,” I tell him.

“Good,” he says, “I thought it might have been the guys ripping the piss . . .”

I laugh. It’s a knee-jerk.

"And you can quit that," he says. "You never saw me on Blackboardfocking Jungle. It's like Fehily used to say – you'll never have a body like Atlas if you sit around reading one."

He gives me the guns, along with a big stiletto smile, and he remains like that until I offer him a nod of acknowledgment. Then he drops to the floor, his hands behind his head, and starts performing sit-ups, each crunch punctuated by a steady rap: “Fock Luke Fitzgerald! Fock Andrew Trimble! Fock Rob Kearney! Fock Shane Horgan!”

Etain appears, standing in the frame of the door. She doesn’t comment on the scene, just asks Ross if he wants two slices of French toast or three. He pulls himself into a sitting position and says, “None for me, Babes. I’m actually going to lay off the fatty shit for a while?”

“I could walk up to Stillorgan,” she says, “get you some granola?” “No, I’m actually cool.” “What about fruit? There’s caster sugar there and fresh ginger. I could do, like, a fruit salad. Or even coffee? Would either of you like even coffee? With just actual toast?”

We both tell her we’re fine and she goes back to the kitchen.

“Mrs focking Doyle on E,” Ross says.

I laugh. “I don’t know, I think she’s kind of sweet.”

“If she gets fake tan on that shirt,” he says, “the next person you’ll be singing her praises to will be a focking coroner.”

I tell him I heard about Ronan, his now 11-year-old son, who is – what parents on this side of the city are all too quick to call – gifted. Last year, after taking two Las Vegas casinos for a total of $240,000, he was sent for testing and discovered to have an IQ of 130. In educational terms, he’s already reached postgraduate level. Fifteen more points and he’s officially a genius. The only problem is that they haven’t managed to find a school for him that’s suited to his intellectual needs.

“Chip off the old block,” Ross says, with rare self-deprecation.

“Maybe you should have had a paternity test done after all,” I say.

He laughs mid-sit-up, then reaches up for another high-five. “Maybe I should,” he says.

I get down to business. “You know Penguin aren’t happy with you?” I say.

"Penguin?" he says, suddenly snapping to his feet and throwing a couple of punches at some imagined foe. "Er, whyexactly?"

“Well,” I say, taking in the four walls, “it may have something to do with the fact that they paid for this place. And you haven’t done any work yet.”

He shrugs. “They’re the times in which we were living, Dude. Anyway, I did some work.”

“Yeah – and it was all very, you know, anatomically correct. Except, obviously, Olga Kurylenko’s four breasts . . .”

“Yeah, that was from, like, a dream I had? I probably shouldn’t eat so much before bed. What can you do to get this Penguin crowd off my case, then?”

"Well, as it happens, they've asked me to put a proposal to you . . ." "Go on." "For a differentbook." "As long as it's the old team back together again. I tell you shit and you write it down – that's the best way I work." "Well, what they want is basically a biography." "A biography," he says, several times, trying the word out for size. "A biography. Okay, continue . . ." "You don't know what a biography is, do you?" "Well, no, but I kind of presumed that was yourdepartment?" "A biography is the story of your life . . ." "Cool. But haven't I already told you the story of my life?" "This would be written from the perspective of others." "Others? As in?" "Well, anyone who's played a part in it. I mean, that last book we did, it threw up a lot of questions. Those sessions with that shrink . . ." "Conchita." "Yeah, I thought she pulled a few psychological threads loose. But not enough for us to see, you know, exactly what's underneath. There's depths to you as yet unexplored." "Depths? Do you think so?" "Yeah." He shrugs. "My old dear never wanted me," he says. "My old man wanted me but never had time for me. That's my life in less than 30 words." "They also kept the fact of your son andyour sister a secret from you."

His eyes take on a yonderly look. "I could give you even more shit on them than that," he says. "How shebasically conned an old woman out of her business. How he'sbasically an even bigger penis than I've ever let on . . ." "I think people wouldlove to know more about them," I say. "The backstory. How did they meet? What was the attraction? And, yes, how did they make their money?" "Fock knows whatthe attraction was," he says. "Did you see her on Oprah, the stupid scrod? She said writing has given her more pleasure than anything in life – except, obviously, the birth of her son. That's a lie – she hated having me." "Well," I say, "all of that – if it's true. But also you . . ." "Me?" "The man behindthe myth." "Well, make sure and put one or two of the myths in as well, because they're all true." "People out there are gagging for you." "Yeah," he says, visibly thrilling to the idea. "I suppose if people are prepared to buy a book about Drico . . ." "And the story of your life," I say, "so far, we only have yourword for it? I've got to tell you, over the years I've been ghosting you, a lot of people have said to me, 'I was there and it didn't happen like that at all . . .' "

He seems slightly needled by the suggestion. "Like who?" I pass it off. "Well, I want to talk to as many people as possible. The guys obviously – JP, Oisinn, Fionn . . ." "Good luck with that," he says. "They're not exactly a happy bunch of campers these days – that whole current economic tiger thing." I heard that Oisinn, who made millions from his perfume, Eau d'Affluence– Essence of Tiger, not to mention his brand of scented holy waters, had lost a fortune on the American stock market. JP, who went back to work in his father's estate agency, is on a three-day week and is rumoured to be signing on for the other two days.

"That whole element is interesting as well," I tell him. "You and your friends were, I suppose, the first generation of Celtic Tiger cubs. It'd be interesting to see how you're all coping with the new economic realities." "Yeah, whatever," he says. "Just remember, what people actuallywant is a book about me. My life, my loves, some of the birds I've bedded down through the years. There's some stories out there about me. Here, take these names down – Rebecca Lane, Joanna Keyes, Sneachta Mullane . . ." He hangs his thumb out, scrabbling around for a memory.

“Etain,” I remind him.

“Exactly – she’d have one or two nice things to say about me from last night. Maybe have a word with her now before I throw her out. Of course, then some of the coaches who ignored my claims over the years and ended up having to eat their basic words. Eddie O’Sullivan’s one, but there’s others . . .”

I tell him not to worry, I’ve already drawn up the bones of a list.

"It's a pretty cool idea," he says, admiring his reflection again. "As in, getting the whole story, except from, like, otherpeople's points of view? I suppose it's a bit like The Hills. Like, you hear Lauren describe some shit that happened and you think, yeah, I'm on herside on this one. Then you hear, like, Heidi or Audrina describe exactly the same shit, but in, like, a different way? And then you think, fock, now I'm on her side — er, whatis going on with my brain?" Etain reappears in the doorway, with – and I'm sure that the shock registers on my face – a second girl, equally pretty, but with a surly set to her face. Did he spend the night with both, I wonder? "Ross," the second girl says, "we were thinking of going to, like, Yo Sushi – ifyou fancied . . ." "I'm going to be honest with you," he says, reaching into the pocket of his chinos and pulling out a small parcel of money, "I hate long goodbyes. As we say in the game, last night was last night – this morning is this morning."

“Here,” he says then, stripping a 50 from the top of the pile and handing it to Etain. “Get yourselves a bit of breakfast somewhere.Should be enough in that for a taxi as well.”

She stares at the note in her hand, a look of outrage spreading across her face.

‘You total wanker!” the other girl says, spitting out the words.

“Hey, there’s a lot of bad words out there,” Ross says evenly, holding my shoulder for balance while stretching his leg behind him. “I’ve been called most of them in my time. This dude here will tell you – he’s known me, like, 10 years. Look, last night was great. We all learned a lot about ourselves. But I’m telling you for your own sake – there ain’t no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.” “Oh my God,” Etain says, “I thought you were such a nice guy. You’re actually a dickhead.”

The two girls make a furious exit, leaving a trail of invective in their wake. Etain, I notice, hangs on to the 50.

"That hasto go into the book," Ross says, pointing at the slamming door. "Wouldn't be a bad way to start it either."

I gurn non-committally, then stand up.

“Hey, before you go,” he says, “is this any good to you?”

He plucks a tattered, leather-bound journal from a bookshelf noticeably light on books.

I hold it in my hands and let it fall open. “What is it?” I say, my eyes straining to make sense of the crazy hieroglyphics.

“Father Fehily’s journal,” he says.

"His journal?" He nods. "Yeah, no, he left it to me when he died – in, like, his will?" I look at the inside cover. It says, My Struggle, 1992-1999.

“Now I’m kicking your orse out as well,” Ross says. “You’ve got a serious amount of work to do. Go and talk to some women — find the real Ross O’Carroll-Kelly.”

We Need to Talk About Ross: The Totally Official Biography of Ross O’Carroll-Kelly

is published by Penguin, £12.99