Now, I don't mean to give you all an impression of Conall Donoghue as a bright man, or a deep thinking man or a courageous man or especially compassionate. Nor do I want you to think of him doing the things he does in the book swiftly and heroically. Do me a favour. Every time you read here that Conall got up off his great white arse and performed some action, please factor in the hours he spent collapsed into his armchair, rubbing his fat fingers over his stubbly oul puss, looking out into his garden where the turnips refused to grow, the carrots sprouted sideways and the rhubarb took root upside down.