Shane Ross - The Bankers: How the Banks Brought Ireland to Its Knees

I am a cranky curmudgeon at the best of times. I spend my life complaining about the mistakes, impatience and inefficiencies of others. Other people are mostly impossible, lazy, unhelpful and rude.

Writing a book makes matters worse. All human beings become intolerable. Neighbours become nuisances. Friends become enemies.

At some stage in the middle of writing this book the penny dropped. As everyone I encountered became thoroughly obnoxious, I was reminded of an incident from my long-ago drinking days. At some time during that fuzzy period I turned to a drinking companion and let rip: The more I drink, I declared loudly, the more objectionable you become.

Today I happily acknowledge that it was I, not my companion, who was the problem in those distant days. It is harder, with the benefit of full sobriety, to suggest that everybody I met in recent months could have suddenly turned into poisonous old foul-mouths. Yet that is the only alternative to the less than palatable truth: writing a book turns angels into devils, saints into sinners, sane men into monsters.

So it is probably appropriate to apologize first and to acknowledge second. Or to do both together.

This book has been a pleasure to write. Even some of Irelands most despised bankers have been helpful in enabling me to put the pieces together. Happily I have been able to speak to many of the key players in this dark story. Some refused. Many have not wanted to be quoted directly but, suffice to say, there is no bank where I have not interviewed at least one director. In several cases it has been more. Senior politicians of all parties have assisted me in establishing the truth; even the walls of the Central Bank and the Department of Finance have been penetrated. Let me thank all those who wished to remain anonymous but who spent hours telling me about the shenanigans inside their workplaces.

To my employers in the Sunday Independent, special thanks for allowing me six months off to write the book.

More specifically, to those who laboriously helped to compile it, a deep expression of gratitude. To Nick Webb, deputy business editor of the Sunday Independent, heartfelt thanks for reading the book chapter by chapter and making valuable suggestions.

To Nuala Walsh, my personal assistant, for putting up with days of intolerable tension and for giving of her own time to dig up valuable information.

To Elizabeth OBrien, for her patience and diligence in supplying research which provided priceless background.

To Paul Kearney, for his calm endurance while checking the book for accuracy.

To my good friend Ralph Benson, who took four weeks off from his job to share his expertise in a field where I was sorely deficient.

To David Conachy, photographic editor of the Sunday Independent, for helping to select and assemble the photographs.

To my editor at Penguin, Brendan Barrington, who made my task much more difficult by his conscientious insistence that it was important to back up my instinct for sweeping generalizations with tiresome evidence. His criticisms and suggestions have improved the story immeasurably. I am deeply grateful to him.

To my wife Ruth, who never complained about my long absences a tendency which, on reflection, could be a cause for alarm, not gratitude. She was endlessly indulgent of my latest little obsession and listened patiently when I complained of the daily spat with whoever crossed my path.

I dedicate the book to my younger brother Connolly, who died suddenly in December 2007, and to my great friend Paul Tansey, who would have written it much better. Paul died equally sadly in September 2008. They are both badly missed.