Bücher von Blaise Cronin

He scratched his scrotum in mindless, metronomic fashion, then drew the plaid curtains to be greeted by fuliginous gloom. When would tourists realize that postcard Ireland existed but one day a month; that in the westerly extremities of the verdant isle the average annual rainfall exceeded damp Dublin's by a factor of two? If you didn't like rain, why on earth would you be living in Slieveport? You'd often hear that from the locals, who gave not a fig whether you deemed it meteorological machismo or masochism. When the global water wars kicked off, wouldn't the perpetually drenched land of saints and scholars be sitting pretty, awash with liquid gold? It'll be for exporting water not Kerrygold that the country will be known in the future, quipped Basil, revealing a rare flash of geo-political nous.

With George Kingsley's unexpected death, Sebastian lost not only his closest friend but also his financial backer: George held almost all the equity in the business. The Conyers was Sebastian's in name only. It really did seem that he was dogged by bad luck. But he need not have worried. In that peculiarly west of Ireland way, one thing would lead to another. To the surprise of everyone in the world of publishing, an unknown hotelier from Connaught would soon be launching a major new book prize. What kind of award? Worth how much? The literati on both sides of the Irish Sea were mightily curious. A new phase in the picaresque life of Sebastian Conyers was set to begin. Few could have imagined the sequence of events that would unfurl.

'Laissez les bons temps rouler!' You don't have to speak French to join in the party. The Irish economy has taken off. Every Tom, Dick and Harriet is clambering onto the bandwagon, singing along with gusto. Not Sebastian Conyers. Jilted and jobless, he stares out at the sullen Atlantic, his future as bleak as the landscape. And then it comes to him, the way things do in the west of Ireland: retailing. Before you can say Gombeen man, Rhopos ('Quality without pretentiousness') opens for business in Rathboffin. The former academic and incorrigible philanderer is now a purveyor of fine wines and a budding art advisor. His every penny is invested in the venture. If the Celtic Tiger runs out of steam, he'll be up the Swanee. But this is the land of milk and honey, of newly minted millionaires, of bling and blarney. What can possibly go awry? The Fake's Egress is the sequel to The Fake's Regress

'One of the noblest views in the world...' In rain-splattered, flower-powered Westport you'll hear William Makepeace Thackeray's fulsome words intoned more often than the Rosary. The much-fêted town, nestling at the edge of majestic Clew Bay and overlooked by conical Croagh Patrick-that most holy of holy mountains-is as tiny as it is tidy, as cute as it is cosmopolitan. Westport is the Koh-i-Noor in Connaught's crown, a magnet not only for tourists but also writers, artists and musicians from all corners of the globe. Tarry a while and you'll soon be ensorcelled by the friendly banter, cheerily painted houses, music-filled pubs and traditional shop-fronts. It's Ireland, as it ought to be. And it is here, a mere sling shot from the wild Atlantic, that Botox-the needle-propelled elixir of youth, the Finn McCool of facial treatments-is manufactured. One way or another, Westport will get under your skin.

The Fake's Regress is the sequel to The Fake's Progress. Shortly before 9/11, Sebastian Conyers washes up in a remote corner of Ireland. Neither bowed nor chastened, he happy-go-luckily hitches his wagon to an unheard-of technical college with delusional aspirations to make a name for itself in Saudi Arabia. Though, like every Irishman, Sebastian knows the quote 'To Hell or Connaught,' he is about to learn that the two are not mutually exclusive. One minute he's engaged to marry a colonel's daughter, the next he finds himself trussed and gagged in a wooden crate destined for clandestine shipment to Riyadh. And all because his alcohol-stained lips grazed those of a young Saudi student. Will this be the final installment in the picaresque life story of Castletownmorris's most libidinous, most narcissistic son?

Sebastian Conyers emerged from the womb at a time when sex did not exist in Ireland. At age twenty-one he thought that a clitoris was a flower. When he eventually broke his duck, it was with the panache of an inebriated sumo wrestler. Women took an interest in the young professor as he cruised the conference circuit. If pressed, he would have described himself as an accidental philanderer. Others would have been less charitable: an inveterate womanizer, a priapic narcissist. His career took him to the Grubb Business School, where many a feather would be ruffled. Sebastian was cavalier, sardonic and libidinous. His new colleagues were of a different kidney: politically correct, sanctimonious and litigious. The scuzzy semen trail that had begun in Ireland would end in Iowa amid potentially ruinous accusations of sexual harassment, racial insensitivity and misogyny. Would Sebastian's luck hold, or had he finally flown too close to the sun?