Ian Dawson is a car mechanic — a man of spanners, stubby beers, and a physique optimised for reclining. One evening he logs on to buy bin bags and, a few clicks later (cheers, targeted ads), accidentally enters an IRONMAN triathlon.
It’s a slow-motion car crash in prose: A calamity told in instalments: an account of one man’s journey from garage gremlin to Lycra liability. Expect wetsuits that vacuum-seal like a ham, bicycles that attempt homicide on hills, and nutrition gels with the mouthfeel of industrial adhesive.

At home, his long-suffering wife watches “training” (here meaning leaking near traffic) with the composure of someone who once saw him superglue himself to a carburettor. The kids call him “the man who used to live here.” Friends cheer as if observing a runaway bin lorry.

IRONDAD is a gloriously unhinged odyssey through midlife delusion, algorithmic betrayal, and heroic failure. It’s Rocky meets Mr Bean — if Rocky got shin splints on the stairs.