In the rain-lashed bowels of Manchester, Owen Croft snakes drains for strangers while his own life backs up like a U-bend from hell. At 38, twice-divorced, and bunking with a judgmental goldfish named Regret, Owen's no hero-just a hungover everyman plumbing the depths of mediocrity, one bunged-up toilet at a time.

This ain't your glossy self-help sob story. It's seven savage days in the life of a lazy bastard: Mondays resurrecting like zombies with a grudge, Tuesdays tangoing with pub temptresses who ghost faster than his Tinder matches, Wednesdays humping the week's hernia till it herniates his soul. Thursdays thirst for anything but the truth, Fridays fake freedom with kebab-fueled fanfare, Saturdays slob supreme on cold pizza and Xbox frag-fests, and Sundays roast regrets rarer than redemption.

Owen's voice is a gut-punch of Mancunian grit-crude as a cracked pint glass, funny as a ferret in your Y-fronts, and raw as the alimony notices piling up on his doormat. You'll laugh till your sides ache, cringe at the cock-ups, and maybe-just maybe-eye your own existential clog with a wary squint. Warning: Not inspiration. Just a mirror for the muck. If it makes you weep, order a vindaloo. At least that'll fill the void.

Perfect for fans of Karl Pilkington's rants or Irvine Welsh's underbelly blues.

Published by Indigo Ink Books. Available now. Don't blame Owen if you try this at home-the bailiffs don't do refunds.