Autobiography: Oh dear, if only Michael Flatley could be persuaded to cover up his chest. There it is, displayed on the cover of this book - as well as on far too many photographs inside - all glistening and shiny, like the well-basted breast of a battery-raised chicken, writes Robert O'Byrne
That puffed-out expanse of flesh rather sets the tone for what follows: an exhaustive account of Mr Flatley's many triumphs told in the kind of ardent prose usually confined to teenage girls' magazines.
His present good fortune, readers are to understand, wasn't easily won. Whatever now comes Flatley's way - the money, the women, the international property portfolio, the standing ovations - has been achieved only in the face of opposition. He is familiar with misfortune; indeed, his life reads not unlike a Victorian serial in which, with every successive chapter, our valiant hero must face down a fresh challenge.
He grew up in one of Chicago's poorer districts, in a house so small he was actually obliged to share a bedroom with his younger brother; who could have known such destitution existed less than half a century ago? As a young man he had to dig ditches; who would have believed Chicago needed so many? He has sometimes had to overreach his credit card limit; who might have guessed this was feasible?
But regardless of how great the setback, not once has Flatley been deterred from realising his dream. He is, after all, the same plucky fellow who once agreed to take on the strongest boy in school. And won. Thereafter there hasn't been a predicament, whether incipient poverty or physical injury or scheming foe, capable of knocking him out. Really, it's amazing, his story makes for an epic greater than those of Cuchulainn and Fionn Mac Cumhaill combined. And now, having seen him reach the pinnacle of human ambition - a photo-opportunity with Nelson Mandela - it's time to pose the critical question: has success spoilt Michael Flatley? His many fans around the world will be relieved to learn that the answer is no; he's still the same simple Irish-American broth of a lad he always was, satisfied with the occasional champagne bath, a modest collection of Ferraris, BMWs and Rolls-Royces, a 20-seat private cinema and a Roman spa. In other words, with circumstances not so different from that humble little home in Chicago. And he's terribly keen to share his wealth.
The testimonials in this book (not so much an autobiography as an auto-hagiography) just keep rolling out. Michael Flatley is "very warm, very generous", according to one business associate, he's "very, very generous", says a former member of his dance troupe, he's "extremely personable to everyone", declares his valet - and who could hope for higher praise than that? Well, actually, Flatley does. Lord of the Dance includes an encomium from Mary Harney. The Tánaiste slips into the guise of a boyband fan to rave of Michael Flatley that "despite his extraordinary talent, he's a very ordinary guy. He's super." Not one to be outdone by a PD partner in Government, Bertie Ahern also hastens to salute the phenomenon that is Michael Flatley, although he might regret doing so after seeing his title of Taoiseach misspelled on page 271. Despite his weak grasp of orthography, Flatley's admirers would have us acknowledge him as a living saint - Mother Teresa in studded leather pants, Padre Pio with a waxed and oiled torso.
And that's not to take into account his other claims to our attention. He is on record as being the world's fastest tap dancer, which has to be some class of achievement. He managed to make Irish dancing sexy, ditto. He knows how to choreograph in the style of Busby Berkeley. He's an astute judge of the market for popular entertainment who has amassed a personal fortune. All of which is to the credit of Flatley and his bank balance, but not necessarily to the betterment of Ireland (pace Harney and Ahern, both of whom seem to believe lines of drilled dancers tapping in unison enhance this country's global image).
To Flatley, all criticism is like a torn ligament or a disagreement with management: something that cannot be permitted either to distract or deflect. The conviction that drives him would be admirable were it not so often misplaced. At the close of Lord of the Dance, he states his credo: "If you believe in yourself and you follow your dreams then nothing is impossible." I beg to differ and can confidently make the following three predictions. Michael Flatley will never develop a sense of humour, especially with respect to his "art", where it would be most beneficial. No matter if this autobiography sells as well as tickets for one of his performances, it will never win any literary awards. And its subject will never appreciate the purpose of those buttons running down the front of his shirt.
Lord of the Dance By Michael Flatley with Douglas Thompson Sidgwick & Jackson, 322pp. £17.99
Robert O'Byrne is a judge on Celebrity Jigs'n'Reels, which concludes on RTÉ 1 tomorrow