When I was 17 years old and playing football in school one afternoon, I sprinted across the pitch and lunged in with both feet, studs up, in an attempt to injure the school principal, Fr. Alfie. It should have been perfectly obvious I was trying to “do him”, not least because he was over 60 years of age at the time and saying mass in the school chapel. Despite that, I’m rehashing the story here because it might sell a few extra copies of my book.

He’d given me a detention the previous week, see, and not a minute of that hour went by when I didn’t think of Fr. Alfie. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, I decided to take my revenge. Crunch. Wallop. Take that you cunt! He hasn’t said mass since and doctors reckon he might never say mass again. (He died in 1997, and may God have mercy on him, because I fucking didn’t.) That’ll teach him not to mess with me.

I should add, in case any lawyers are reading this, that I didn’t actually write that paragraph. Fuck no, boy. I simply dictated it to a friend and he typed it for me in exchange for a quid. So, if there’s any legal repercussions, don’t blame me. Even though he wrote down everything I said word for word, he’s prepared to concede that he may have taken a certain amount of artistic licence. If needs be.

Then there’s all those scrounging fuckers who are always pestering me for stuff. Tickets, for example. There was this one 17-year-old girl who came up to me once and thanked me for using my “showbiz contact” (name-drop ahoy!) Andy Cairns (clang!) to score her and a friend tickets to a Therapy? gig in the Olympia that was sold out. She said she was ever so grateful, particularly as I’d let them sleep in my house in Dublin that night. I said I didn’t know what she was talking about and asked her who the fuck she was. It turned out that she was my little sister, Pamela, and I had actually got her the tickets and allowed her to invade the sanctuary of my home. How I could have done that to my flatmates is unbelievable. I don’t know how they put up with me. I tell you something for nothing – I wouldn’t fucking do it again.

And as for the langers who are always harassing my parents down in Offaly, looking for the lowdown on this, that and the other. “How’s Barry? Have you heard from him lately? Is he getting on okay over in London? Make sure to send him our regards if you’re talking to him,” the neighbours will say. Who the fuck do they think they are, the nosy bastards? If I want their regards I’ll fucking ask for them, otherwise they can all fuck right off.

The plummeting journalistic standards of hotpress are starting to piss me off as well. Far be it from me to name names, but the cock-ring culture of this magazine is starting to wreck my bazzer. Once lads start going to ligs, eating sushi, getting bolts through their cocks and rings through their tits you know that the hunger for truth just isn’t there any more. Like I said, I’m too cowardly to name people who might be able to defend themselves, but there were two typographical errors in Joe Jackson’s interview with Elvis Presley in the last issue, Stuart Clark can’t write for toffee, Olaf Tyaransen’s book about shagging that I haven’t read yet is a pile of sub-literate shite, and Peter Murphy wouldn’t know a good gig or album if it got into bed beside him and started fondling his arse cheeks. Fuck the lot of them. Except Niall Stokes the editor. He’s great because he decides what writers feature in the magazine.

My mates often say to me, Barry, why do you always end up in bed with such horrifically ugly women? Because dogs don’t talk shite, I always say.

Let me tell you about the time the Big Issue tried to hire me. I was writing Argos catalogues and out of nowhere, the head honcho got in touch and arranged a meeting: “Barry, it’s just not working out with the tramps. Come and write patronising editorials about the emotional crutches provided by mangy dogs on lengths of baling twine,” he pleaded. I said I’d do it and shook hands on the deal. That night, however, Niall Stokes got on the blower and asked me if I’d actually signed a contract with the homeless magazine. I said I hadn’t, but that I had a gentleman’s agreement with the editor and was due to sign the papers the next day. He was thrilled. “A gentleman’s agreement isn’t worth the paper it’s not written on,” he declared. “Come and write for me and I’ll make it worth your while.” The rest, as they say is history. The Big Issue went ballistic, obviously, although I don’t know what their problem was because we’d only shook hands on the deal. “I’m alright Jack,” I told them. The bollickses.

PUBLISHER’S NOTICE: The expletive-ridden drivel above comprises the six most interesting extracts from Barry Glendenning’s forthcoming autobiography Everyone’s A Complete Cunt Except People It’s In My Best Interests To Be Nice To. The rest of it, which is typically boring autobiographical tosh about growing up “down the country”, going to school, playing football for Birr Town Under 14s, his grandparents, and how chuffed he was when Offaly won the 1994 All Ireland hurling final, is available for serialisation to any newspaper prepared to give him loads of cash.

AUTHOR’S NOTICE: Alternatively, if it’s an interesting autobiography you’re after, you could just buy Frank Skinner by Frank Skinner, which I got for a fiver in HMV and thoroughly enjoyed on my recent holiday. The hilarious story Frank tells about losing his virginity to a rancid Birmingham brasser is worth the price of admission alone, and unlike some autobiographies you could waste your money on, he actually took the trouble to write his himself.