"I'm Irish! So am I! I am too!"

Last night, my wife and I were treated to a comedy show. Except we didn't have to pay for it. Or actually face the comediennes. We sat with our backs to three Stepford-type wives who talked so much verbal diarrhoea, that I near choked on my chicken with laughter.

We were in a favourite restaurant of ours, sitting at the long bar. We sit at the bar purely because we know a few of the staff well and have a bit of witty banter with them - whilst we eat and have a couple of drinks.

This restaurant is very popular, and it was a usual, busy Saturday night. Some people sit and have a drink before they are shown to their table, and this was where we encountered our three main protagonists.

We were treated to the atypical air kissing when they all arrived and greeted each other. Both of us looked at each other and wondered why we always seem to attract these type of eejits. We didn't talk to them, but we always seem to be around the very presence of fake people. Or maybe we can just spot them a mile off.

Anyhow, after the fur coats and ski jackets were removed, the bullshit spewed forth. The three men took seats at the bar whilst the women corralled themselves into a small diamond of chatter. My wife had the "what car are you driving now?" on her left hand side, as the men measured each other dicks by the size of their engines.

Directly behind us we had the triumvirate of one-up-manship beginning. These ladies were all in their forties and fifties, and well accustomed to Botox and house servants. Their nails and hair were coiffed to the utmost degree and the mix of three strong perfumes in close proximity to my dinner was making me gag a touch. The usual "you look great" kicked off the proceedings.

But the conversation was gold. It more than made up for my now-flavoured Chanel chicken and mash. They talked about their children firstly and constantly talked over one another. I was nearly awarding points in my head to each contestant, as they one-upped each other with outlandish tales and stories.

The next subject that was discussed was Hurricane Sandy and the affect it had on their immense properties. This was where they could really embellish. These ladies lived outside Boston, a good distance from where Hurricane Sandy did real substantial damage.

One said she had two trees down in the back garden - another said she had three down - but the last one had almost won the contest - stating she had lost slates off the roof, the picket fence and her two wheelie bins! Ding ding! I was just about to award her victory, but the first one then interjected with a stonewaller. 

She stated that some rival waste collection companies were stealing the competitions' bins in order to win contracts. Knockout blow! This was starting to get bitchy. This is where we both laughed at each other with our eyes in astonishment.

Then came the final topic - holidays. Where they were going to spend the New Year skiing and what destinations they were thinking about for next summer. One of them mentioned Ireland and we stopped eating and drinking. This could be good.

That's where the ladies stated the title above, and much hi-fiving started.

Had any one of them ever been to Ireland? No.

Had any one of them ever been outside the USA? No.

Did anyone of them possess passports? Yes - they all did to visit Mexico and Aruba. Not exactly far away from the USA.

Were any of their parents from Ireland? No.

Had any of them Irish-sounding names? No.

Did any of them have an "Irish" look about them? No.

I was going to turn around and quite proudly state the blindingly obvious, but I restrained myself.

Instead, we guffawed into our dinner until they shuffled away to their table. We pretended to be laughing at something else, without any of the women knowing we were giggling at their expense. It was pure comedy gold - even the bar staff were entertained by the stories.

We went for dinner but inadvertently got a free show thrown in. Great value altogether.

Phone Rant.

I think I'm fairly considerate toward others. I am normally kind enough to think of others when I don't have to.

Let me point out firstly, that I am not an anti-phone person. Mobile phones have changed the world dramatically in such a positive way that it is almost impossible to gauge how they have revolutionised the globe. They serve such an important role in communication around the world, that life and death can sometimes, be decided with a simple phone call.

But these calls are not important in a cinema. When you've been told at least three times to turn off your phone. For two hours of your life. How hard can that be?

I was lucky enough to go see the latest James Bond film, Skyfall, in London the other night. It was a fabulous film and I encourage anyone who hasn't seen it, to go. It tips a hat to the older Bond films whilst still being current and interesting.

I arrived late to the cinema and had to make do with a seat at the front of a small screen. I didn't mind as we normally sit near the front anyhow when visiting the flicks. I had two seats to myself until they obviously sold the seats around me to other latecomers.

I had seats vacant either side of me and plonked my jacket on one of them. I had two young ladies on one side and two young men on the other. They were all in their late teens and chomped their way on popcorn and nachos for the first half hour of the film. I didn't mind that at all, because normally I'd be the one chowing down hard on a big bucket of salted popcorn.

We were almost one hour into the film before I began to get distracted by the lights of the mobile phones either side of me. Initially, I didn't really care, as it wasn't that off putting. But the lights slowly became more bothersome and more frequent.

Then the young lady on my right started playing Tetris on her phone. Then the gobshite on my left was checking his newsfeed on Facebook. I ignored it for a few minutes thinking that they would stop after a minute or two and go back to watching the film. He did put it away, but she stayed on it for over ten minutes.

I made my impatience obvious and without being rude, told her in no uncertain terms to turn it off.

The effect was immediate. The young lad beside me knocked his phone off too. Two birds with one barbed comment.

When I go into a public place whether it be restaurant or cinema - I turn off my phone. I would like to think that people in there go into those establishments to get away from life for a while. To tune out, to chill out. To get away from hand held technology and talk to actual people or to be entertained by the big screen. 

Has the world changed so dramatically that the contact with your phone is addictive?

On the way out of the cinema, I was glared at with sour faces for speaking my mind. Was I wrong here?

The Frankenstorm Drama.

No other nation does drama quite like America. No other nation is even close. This is the land of Hollywood, after all. They over exaggerate and blow things way out of proportion. That's what makes them unique as a nation and as a people.

So on Monday, the eastern coast of the USA expects a storm like they haven't seen in some years.
The name of the incoming hurricane is Sandy, but some of the television networks are calling it some hilarious names. My favourite is "Frankenstorm" - the reason that this storm is getting so much attention is that it is almost 700 miles wide. That's kind of big - no matter where you're from.

Accompanying the news headlines about the impending weather event is also funny. The red ticker tape than runs along the bottom of the screen (which actually is serious news) is so way over the top, that I spent two hours watching various channels just to see their hyped up versions of the same news.

I am not making these up - these were some of the flashing words that appeared on several different channels.

"SURGING SANDY TAKES AIM!"
"EAST COAST TO BE SLAMMED BY SANDY!" (Sounds like a porn film)
"WIDESPREAD PANIC BUYING!"
"SIMMERING SANDY STORM"
"POWER PREPAREDNESS PROBLEMS"over the next day or two
"SANDY STRIKE ZONE"
"BUILDING THE BEACHES"
"SANDY TO BRING TRAIL OF DESTRUCTION"
"TOPPLING TROPICAL TUMULT"
"A MONTH OF RAIN IN ONE HOUR!"
"SCRAMBLING STORES SUFFER STOCK SUPPLY SHORTAGES!"
"ELECTRICAL CHAOS!"
"FREAKY FRANKENSTORM!"

They've mentioned the film "The Perfect Storm" on many of the major networks when talking about the storm, which is only natural. But the fact that Halloween is just around the corner, they just couldn't resist mingling the two and coming up with Frankenstorm.

That's why I love the USA's version of weather updates. They are so bloody dramatic and over the top that you laugh. You think "that'll never happen", but these guys are so accurate, it happens to the very minute and location. It's mental how good they actually are. And it's mad to think that even the Weather channel is compulsive viewing!

On a more serious note - let's hope it fizzles out and people don't get hurt. Be safe out there in the Eastern states of the USA over the next few days.

The Irish Golfing Gombeen.

We meet all types of personality in our daily lives. But nothing seems to irk us more than those who look down their nose at us. Their feeling of superiority and all-knowingness makes us feel cheap and used. And then five minutes later, when they are gone, you think of the response you should have given them.

I had the simple pleasure of sitting down behind three of these types of gombeens recently. They reminded me of how much crap they actually talk.

Before I continue, I must tell you that my first job was in a fairly posh golf club, so I can see this type of person coming a mile off. I endured and tolerated some amount of politically incorrect stuff during my formative years. Not all members are like this, but a lot of them are this idiotic.

I was seated behind three grown men between the ages of 45-55. They sat in front of me and I bore witness to their immature chat during the morning flight. They were excited heading away on their holidays, which was understandable, as was I. But the kind of verbal diahorrea that came out of their mouths was hilarious, and a little bit disgusting. I had truly forgotten how this type of snobbish behaviour still exists - outside of Ross O'Carroll Kelly books.

My first boss, Vincent, instilled in me an ability to swallow your pride and accept shite from these plonkers. You would get further and last longer in the job if you just got on with it, he said. I knew that it wasn't acceptable, but behind closed bar doors and in kitchens we all laughed at their stupidity well after the fact. It was a form of group therapy, if you will.

For example - you spoke a different way to the full members and the visitors. You called the Captain of that particular year "Captain", instead of John or Mary, like you would normally do. They said it was based on respect, but I knew damn well it was just about power and lording it over the mere minions that worked in kitchens and bars.

My favourite incident I recall was working with an absolute lady, who for privacy reasons, I'm going to call her, Nell. Nell worked in the kitchen and was well experienced. She was born and bred in Finglas, but moved into the country when she and her husband started a family.

It was about 1994 or '95 when the Captain and Lady Captain of that year, had just had their Drive-In. It normally happens in early spring, when the Irish golfing season officially begins. One particular lady member, who had just been instated as Lady Captain, got ideas above her station all of a sudden.

This same 'lady', played regular golf and was heavily involved with the running of the ladies competitions. She was well liked by all the staff until this day. This woman had never worked a day in her life and had years previously married a very wealthy businessman - who was also obnoxious by the way, coincidentally.

The newly appointed Lady Captain had always been known to everyone in the golf club by her first name, Ramona. Cue the conversation from almost two decades ago when Ramona visited the kitchen to order something on an early Tuesday morning.

Knock knock on the open kitchen door.

"Hello there! Is there anyone in?"

"Yep. I'm just in the door. I'm over here emptying de dishwasher. Ah howya Ramona - 'tis only yerself. What can I get ya?"

"Em quite. Eh, Nell, could I please get tea and scones for three as soon as possible. We have a tee time in forty minutes - chop chop."

"Yeah, no problem Ramona. You take a seat in the bar and I'll drop dem down to ya as quick as I can."

"And eh, Nell - heat them for me and put butter and jam on all three also. And for God's sake don't let the tea go to to treacle."

"Yep - no problem Ramona. I'll do dat right now."

"And one more thiing Nell. It's Lady Captain from here on in. Lady Captain to you and your eh, sort. Do I make myself clear? I'm only called Ramona by my friends."

"No problem Ramona."

I had just clocked in to open the bar and Nell was fuming as I cut through the kitchen. I had just missed their special little chat.

I pointed out that Nell hadn't had time to sweep the kitchen floor - just yet.

Before Nell dropped the tea and scones down to the three ladies in the bar, we played a little game.

We called it Kick the Scone across the Dirty Floor with your Grubby Mucky Shoes On.

Nell delivered the tray to the bar, placed it on the table and said with a bright smile

"There ya go Lady Captain. Enjoy!"

Just remember that when you treat people like shit, it comes back to bite you.

Meeting a Childhood Hero.

Today I met one of my childhood heroes.

You won't find him in many databases, on Linkedin, on Facebook or many search engines. In fact, you might only catch his name in the odd local news report or people will know of him at the local town hall or church. Especially if you live in the parish of Skryne, just outside Navan.

The man is a living legend. He has given so much of his life to sport in his local parish - it is simply staggering. He is one of these "pillars of the community" - who moves mountains for others and asks for little in return. A quiet soul, who lets his actions speak for themselves.

I first met him when I was about eight or nine years old. Even then he was heavily involved in our local soccer club, a team in which my eldest brother played in. He would be up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning, washing the kit, pumping footballs and lining the pitch in preparation for the upcoming match. And this was the early 1980's, when soccer was still referred as the "foreign sport." He was also the manager on many occasions and goalkeeper whenever the need arose. This man had no end of talents.

After the game, he'd ring in the match reports to the local papers, and prep the gear for the following week. The man was a robot, in my young pre-pubescent eyes. Nearly thirty years later, he's still at it.

He's nor involved with the senior male set-up anymore, but prefers to coach and encourage the younger generation coming through. Although it's not on the same level as many Dublin underage clubs, it seemingly has been doing very well over the past few years.

Meeting him today, he still has the incredible drive and will to make sure his local area is well represented from a soccer point of view. I could still see the pride in his eyes when we both recalled past glories and stories.

When I was sixteen years old, I played in my first senior soccer match - and he was the manager. I still remember the words he said to me before I went on. I can't remember who we were playing, but he put me on the left wing.

"Just go out and play your normal game," were his simple words of advice. I played for that same club for twelve years - mainly because of him.

He was always encouraging, yet you never wanted to disappoint him. When he flew into a rage, which didn't often happen, you accepted it. You knew in the back of your mind, even if you didn't agree with him at the time - that he was right.

I had my fair share of heated exchanges with him and we went on many a night out and football trips abroad. He has always been generous with his time and chat. His slight frame and quiet disposition always gave the impression that he would be a walkover for many people who faced him, or played against him. But his cover hid a divil underneath - and he used that to his advantage. As a result, there's not many people who have been involved with local soccer in Meath over the past twenty odd years that don't respect him.

The man is a true gent in every sense of the word.

Take a bow - Dermot Carty.

The Generosity of the Irish Spirit.

It was only in conversation with three cruise companions this week, that a common held world conception, rang true to me for the first time in some while. Our companions were from Scotland and Canada and confirmed to both of us why the Irish abroad are held in such high esteem.

Is it the Irish lilt or the trusting face? Is it the glint in the eye when we talk or our ability to listen to the saddest of tales? Is it because our presence stretches to all corners of the globe? Is it the ability to sell an idea and make it seem that it was always a great idea? Is it our self-deprecation and begrudgery all rolled into one? Or is it our kind and generous nature whatever our backs are against a wall and the pressure is on?

Or is it a combination of all of the above plus thousands of more attributes?

 I’d like to think so. Of course, there are the exceptions to every rule. Cute-hoorism is almost directly linked to a sense of Irishness. Look at many of our past and present politicians as an example of a cute hoor. I shouldn’t brand them all as one and the same, as there are plenty in all walks of life.

Bob Geldof was the first Irishman in my early life, who was recognized on the world stage – I was only nine years old when he organized and mobilized the entire world music community, to raise money for starving children in Africa.

It’s not the major things though, that stand out for me. It’s holding a door open for others you don’t know or being courteous to those of an older generation. I hope that this still occurs when I am part of that age. Saying “bless you” when someone sneezes is another.

We are all taught at a young age the importance of our heritage and our innate culture. It leads to good manners as we all get older, wherever we end up on this planet.

That is Irishness.

Being kind when you don’t have to be. That’s what distinguishes us. Being kind with your time when people least expect it.

So this week, I fully saw first-hand what manners mean. We encountered approximately ten nationalities. The vast majority of them have no manners. I mean none - whatsoever!

With the exception of the handful of Americans, Canadians, Scottish, English, Polish and Irish people (which numbered about 200 of almost 4,000 guests) – we were staggered at the ignorance. Every night, sitting down to dinner we shared our tales of woe and mind-splitting madness that we had endured that day.

Having laughed, shaken our heads and tried to forget about it – we couldn’t. It was time for Plan B. Not the singer obviously, but to do what they did to us. In other words – if you can’t beat them, join them.

It’s not in my nature to be rude. I can’t help it, as it’s just not in me. But at times, I have a nasty side when I know I’ve been wronged. So, early the next morning in the mad, crazy rush for the buffet breakfast – we steeled ourselves and ploughed through the Italians. I didn’t stop to apologize for bumping into anyone – they never did for me, so why should I?

It soon became natural to me after one day. I stood on some young lad’s toe by accident and walked on. He was about to walk through me, thinking I was going to stop for him – but I didn’t. My rudeness was mainly held for the vast majority of the passengers who were of Italian descent.

Of course though, if someone was kind no matter what their nationality, I was kind back in reply.

I’m not a complete bastard - yet.

Rubbish and Shit.

I’m not easily offended. It takes a lot to irk me. I like a good first impression – it says a lot about a person or place.

Its day six on our cruise and we’ve entered our fifth port. Tunis seems like a nice place, yet we haven’t stepped off as it’s early in the morning here. By all accounts it looks clean and relatively modern.

The cruise cannot be faulted so far, but the ports of which we have entered have been, well let’s say, interesting.

We’ve stopped off in three ports in Italy and one in France thus far. They all have many things in common. They have many points of ancient tourist interest, places to go and cafes, shops and bars to frequent – in other words typical, tourist spots.

But the one thing that literally gets up my nose about all four ports - is the smell.

I know that rough smells are part of arriving into an international industrial port. I understand that oil, fumes, fish, rust and noise all play their part – all of which I can reason why those things exist there.

But the thing I can’t understand is the first impression the tourist gets upon stepping off the ship.

You get the usual haggling and harassment from tour guides and taxi men, which is to be expected. A simple “Non” or “No grazie,” usually is enough to paw them off. The terminals are clean and basic, but generally no frills. The odd statue to some nameless sea god or local former resident greets you in the dock.

Then the smell gets you straight away.

It’s not the aforementioned port smell, but rather the odour of molting rubbish and shit from some animal. I kid you not.

At our first port in Marseille, we didn’t get off but decided to take it easy on the boat. Two of our cruise colleagues though, told us of an amazing litter problem they seemed to have on the streets. They even said that people openly drop rubbish without any concern or fear of retribution from the authorities.

Our next port was Genoa, in northern Italy. We ventured off this time and noticed right away that the litter problem wasn’t restricted to southern France. There seemed to be a complete absence of litter bins or cans anywhere around the streets - litter floated aimlessly through the air. When we walked through the main streets and pedestrianized areas though, we saw a different problem.

They are very proud of their dogs in Genoa, but don’t seem to clean up the mess after them. I’m not sure the words “Poop and Scoop” have reached Italy yet.

Napoli was next where piles upon piles of rubbish are quite a common occurrence. It has even gotten to the stage where the locals are now used to living with it. And you know what comes with piles of rubbish.

We visited Palermo yesterday. Of all three Italian ports, this was my favourite. You did get the smell of horse manure greeting you off the boat, but that was because numerous local horse and cart men were offering to take you for a ride – literally. We even have these cart-men in Killarney too, so I shouldn’t grumble. These streets were cleaner than anywhere else we had visited, yet still had a litter problem. 

Two other things we noticed about Palermo. How they park their cars is hilarious – they just stop, get out and park up. And the pavement is another place where you apparently can park too

Another weird one was the amount of adult hat shops there were in business. I can’t name any more than one in Ireland. On one street in Palermo, we counted three. Where are we again? Palermo, Sicily. Do I hear a faint hint of “The Family?”

So when you are abroad for a while, and land back home - you only appreciate the things you are used to everyday - until you are denied access to them. It’s only then, you appreciate them fully.

So if anyone tells you that Ireland has a litter problem – point them in the direction of parts of southern France and Italy.

If anyone slates the standard of our parks and scenic areas - point them to the places already stated above.

Do Irish people clean up after our pets? Most of them do.

“Ship to Shore, Come Feed Me Some More!”

Day two on our first cruise and it’s seriously relaxing so far. But we’ve noticed something seriously bizarre. It was after lunch today, when we both came to the same conclusion and initially laughed about it. But it’s not really funny – more worrying to be honest.

We’re on a large ship that houses some 4,000 guests and 1,300 crew. There’s plenty of space aboard to get lost on its eighteen levels and numerous cafes, bars and restaurants. And that’s probably not including the crew quarters.

We’ve attended two breakfasts and lunches at the same buffet venue and witnessed the phenomenon. This buffet is huge. So big it nearly encompasses the entire fourteenth floor. There are numerous food and drink stations, yet you find yourself avoiding people like obstacles on an assault course.

It’s not that the ship is being buffeted by high winds and rocky seas. Completely the opposite, in fact. The ship is steadier than any aircraft I’ve been on. So the outside elements cannot be blamed.

Is there a cultural difference between all the various nationalities I hear you ask? That isn’t it either.

It’s food. Plain and simple. Like horses with blinkers on, these people have tunnel vision when it comes to getting directly to the abundant never-ending lines of food. It’s blatantly obvious there is plenty of food for absolutely everyone. But that doesn’t seem to stop the guests, young and old from ploughing through each other to get at what they think might be the last morsel.

It’s hilarious watching it happen. People are willing to jump over an elderly man or woman to get their hand on the spatula or large spoon. Then they take these implements and shovel huge dollops of hot and cold food onto ridiculously oversized plastic plates.

And then they throw you a look when you wait graciously for them to put it down! As if you are depriving them of filling that last spot near the edge of their plate. And do you hear any simple manners toward the crew working seriously hard at their jobs? No you don’t, in general but there are some nice people aboard and not all are rude and ignorant.

But the gas thing is the amount of waste there is. The single biggest cost to the cruise company (apart from fuel), is probably the amount of food that goes in the bin. It is staggering. If we need to eat, there is always food around.

Some people on this boat however, don’t think about anyone apart from themselves.

Loss.

It's hard to quantify. It's difficult to measure. It's even stranger to cope with it initially. The song said that "you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." So true.

You don't know how to react when you first encounter loss. What should you do? Should you be doing something else? Or dealing with it in a different way? Loss deals you a hand you don't know quite what to do.

Firstly, there is the loss itself - you go numb.Then you go through the denial. It can't be happening. Not now, of all times to be happening. Then comes the grief and the shock of that being leaving your life - forever. Then comes the acceptance. How you deal with the aftermath depends on the individual. How the individual copes with life and the curveballs life throws.

My first loss in life was my grandfather. I wasn't really aware of him when he died. I was all of about five or six when he died. He taught me how to quack like Donald Duck - I can still do that. He was baldy and charismatic. But that's all I remember about him.

But I remember loads about my most recent loss. The fun I had, the good times far outweighing the bad. Many memorable moments, many of which I cherish. And I thank modern technology for making those fond memories stay very much awake in my present life.

My most recent loss in life was my Apple Macbook. I had the misopportunity of killing it recently. No one else to blame but myself. I was trying to place a rum and diet 7up on a tile coaster beside the laptop, when it didn't balance properly and spilled all over the keyboard. Goodbye Macbook.

I tried all the usual tricks of drying it out, but nothing worked. The damage had been done. So I called in the specialists. The kind of people that know the ins and outs of waferboards and drives.

The computer itself was history but the data I had input over the last three or so years was retrievable. I exhaled loudly, hoping they spoke the truth. They did - and so none of my previous work was in vain. I still have it all, thank fook.

And so I'm back blogging with a new keyboard - and happy that I've a new toy to work with for future writings.

But what an awful waste of rum!!

Ban the celebrity "My story so far" book.

I am sick of them. So called celebrities that flaunt their biographies before they turn forty. Your life has barely begun and because you have a modicum of status within the popular media, you 'tell all' about your life thus far. Please give me a bucket. Most of the pages in these books are barely worth wiping my arse with.

I was watching the Johnathon Ross Show the other night and witnessed another celebrity launch their autobiography. His name is Gareth Malone, better known as the Choirmaster. He is the same age as me - approaching 37. I am not discounting his ability as a choirmaster or indeed a broadcaster - but for feck's sake! You're not into your forties and are cashing in! It's exactly what he's doing.

He is not alone in the cashing-in stakes of biography. In fact, he is just small fry when it comes to the big deals being doled out by the large publishing houses.

In 2006, we saw the mother of all celebrity deals. Wayne Rooney signed a minimum of a five book deal over twelve years worth five million pounds plus royalties. What age was he then you ask? 20.

How can you possibly write your autobiography at the age of twenty?

There were some people that even suggested that how could he ever write five books about his life in that span. At this moment in time, the deal is being reviewed. This is mainly due to the fact that Rooney had a dreadful World Cup in 2010 and barely featured for England at the European Championships earlier this year. His book sales although strong initially, have faded somewhat. His star seems to be fading too.

In this case, you can hardly blame Wayne Rooney for saying yes to the five book deal, but is a life story worth that amount when it is churned out every two years or so?

Katie Price would tell you it is. She is the Queen of the 'My story so far' biography. She has sold over two million copies. Five books in less than ten years. That's what you call cashing in. And she hasn't hit the forty year old mark either.

John Terry hasn't retired from football yet either, has he? The man who just seems to love the limelight (for all the wrong reasons) has penned a deal a deal worth seven figures. And he hasn't even opened his laptop yet for his writer to do all the writing for him.

But worst of all! I hear rumblings that the stars of MTV reality show Jersey Shore are set to be offered book deals in the run up to Christmas - good God!

My rant is this - autobiographies are exactly this. A story of your life when you retire, recalling all the shenanigans and mishaps that blotted and coloured your life. Telling it in a fun and well written way, that leaves the reader with your aspect and your take on your life.

Biographies should be written by those who view your life as it happens, in fact and not fiction (although fiction sells better). But churning out your 'story so far' when you've barely even reached middle age spread is just nonsense and drivel to me.

What probably annoys me more, is that they sell, and sell well. Six of the top 20 books on Amazon right now are not fiction books. Two are autobiographies of the type I am moaning about, so maybe the problem isn't as bad as I initially feared.

Autobiographies should be a once off, and a nice little earner for the writer for a career that has spanned a generation or so. Not for someone who has barely lived life.