It was billed as "the most revealing showbiz book in decades" and that for two euro I could "read it here
first."

It promised to uncover the state's greatest "shock jock's" innermost secrets.

It offered "exclusive" extracts from 'Would the Real Gerry Ryan Please Stand Up'.

I was hooked from page one.

Ryan stretched the full length of the Mail on Sunday in a tuxedo, hand on hip, jacket thrown over shoulder. With those full lips of his he brought to mind Oscar Wilde doing a stint as a nightclub bouncer.

To his left were the headings: 'I know I drink too much', 'Why I lost out on millions','The truth about Pat Kenny'.

There were to be "warts and all" as we read about Ryan's "astonishing life" and "women". Would we please turn to pages 32 to 37?

Expectations were high. Would we hear the twang of knicker elastic in a broom cupboard? Or read of Keith Richards-like excesses?

Would we? Answer: "no".

The title of Ryan's autobiography echoes a song by Eminem. The newspaper article, however, was very 'slim' on anything 'shady' in his life.

We learned that Ryan drinks too much. "Enough to have you certified as a borderline alcoholic." Note 'borderline'. Here's a question: how many middle-aged Irishman DON'T drink too much?

We read about his compulsive obsession with rearranging the shirts in his wardrobe. Sex god David Beckham has the same problem although he rearranges soft drink cans. Unfortunately, there the comparison ends.

He spoke of the greatest experience he's had with drugs – they were diet pills.

He "revealed" his love of food and money. (Stop yawning.)

The "truth about Pat Kenny", by the way, was that Ryan believes he should be paid the same as him.

Oh, and he had a vasectomy (Ryan, not Kenny – that we know of).

So much for the feast of "outrageous" revelations. This was merely a puffed up soufflé that exhaled and died at the first prod of the spoon.

The truth about Ryan appears to be that he has led a relatively unshocking life. The paper gamely attempted to hype it up anyway. Here's an example: the headline stated 'My kids are great. They've seen their father drunk in his underpants, falling down and getting back up'.

What Ryan actually said in the piece below was: 'My children have seen their father in his underpants, drunk, (note commas) besuited and feted, celebrated, falling down and getting back up again'. This was an entirely more banal statement.

And that's exactly what these revelations were: banal. This was no full-frontal flash – just middle-aged belly-spread being stroked in a come-hither fashion.

The real revelation was the apparent extent of Ryan's ego and how he loves to indulge it.

His references to his wealth and how he likes to spend it were nauseating.

The 52-year-old – who was paid €100,000 for his memoirs – apparently spends so much he gets calls from his bank manager telling him he's overdrawn.

He spoke of his favourite sommelier (who's yours?) and how much he enjoys five star hotels and travelling first class – "that, my friends, is better than the 44A".

He told of ordering a €2,000 bottle of wine in a Paris restaurant that he thought was €200 euro. Only 200?

He told how he lost out on "millions" by not doing a deal with NewsTalk.

Then he referred to the moment, after interviewing rape victim Lavinia Kerwick, that he "became absolutely convinced that [he] was a significant figure".

Finally, the real Gerry Ryan had stood up. A self-indulgent, vulgar man, beloved by hundreds of thousands, but perhaps none more so than himself.

Today the listeners who pay his wages are feeling the pain of last week's budget. Ryan might like to remember that as he sips on his chilled Montrachet.

For my two euro I would have preferred less talk of Gerry in his jocks, a couple of decent shocks and for him to stop waving his wad in my face.

Would the real Gerry Ryan please sit down.

dkenny@tribune.ie