Ask Audrey has been sorting out Cork people for years

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I think I am after having sex with a norrie. The last thing I remember about last night was a guy called Tony telling me that he buys his shoes in Aldi. He’s lying next to me in the bed now in a strange house. (Is wallpaper back in or something?) How will I know if I’m on the northside? — Sadie Harrington, Douglas, have another Mojito they said, you’ll be grand they said.

Wake up Tony there and ask him what he calls his mother. If he says Mam, then it’s odds-on that you are deep in the heart of norrie land. If he lives with said Mam, I strongly recommend you jump out the window. The last thing you need on New Year’s Day is Mam asking if you are anything to the Harringtons in Blackpool. (As if.) The trick now is to get home safely. Don’t use a northside taxi firm — your night of shame will be around Douglas faster than you can say “sure nobody will have her after this.”

Guten Tag. I have just arrived back to my apartment in Cork after spending Christmas at home in Munich. My flatmate had a party last night and now there is a man behind my sofa wearing a t-shirt that says “We want Sam”. I don’t think he speaks English. He made a noise that sounded like “how’re oo going on” and I couldn’t make out what he said after that. What do you think I should do? — Katrina, Munich and Jacob’s Island.

I think you should make your excuses and leave. You are in an enclosed space with a Kerry man who failed to find a woman after a night of drink. He is guaranteed to try and score in what is known in Tralee as “deep into injury time.” This usually starts well, with a funny story about his aunt who runs a B&B back in Dingle. The next thing you know, he’s got his tongue in your ear.

Ciao. I met an older woman in the Crane Lane last night. She wasn’t much to look at but she made me laugh. We were doing the snogging thing but then 12 o’clock came and I had to run off and kiss as many women as possible because I am Italian. (I managed 54, all but two with tongues.) When I got back she was dancing with an ugly Irish guy (as if there is any other kind.) Could you tell me how I might contact her again? — Pauli, Naples and Passage West.

Ciao yourself. I met an Italian guy in Crane Lane last night who smelled like a packet of garlic bread. He was the worst kisser I have ever met, and I once got off with a man from Dunmanway. I only snogged him because my Conor was delayed coming back with the pints. For the record, Conor is breaking in a new haircut. As for contacting this woman again, I’ll be in the Mutton Lane Inn at 8pm tonight. Yes, I’d rather kiss Pauli Garlici than stay at home looking at Conor’s shocking bazzer.

I am moving to Cork for the next two months because I cannot stand this time of year in Sweden. The sun is virtually invisible and there is nothing to do. Good idea? — Erik, Stockholm

You’ll notice a few differences. The people are slightly uglier, and there are fewer Volvos. Unless you go to Kinsale. (More Volvos, but the people are still on the plain side.) There’s no shortage of thing to do in Cork at this time of the year. For example, there are about three flights a day to the Canaries. Mind you, it’s hard to get a seat because they are full of retired people who like to fly down to Lanzarote and complain that the young crowd never had it so easy. Alternatively, you could go into Barry’s pub in Douglas and watch people ‘complaining’ about the cost of their skiing holiday at the top of their voice. The competition is fierce.

Hola. I was at my mother-in-law’s house in Limerick for Christmas and she kept talking about something called ‘the grand stretch.’ Is this something to do with yoga? — Rosa, Barcelona.

No. This is the ancient Irish tradition of getting excited in late December because it doesn’t get dark until three in the afternoon. We’re dying to get out of the house in the evenings for a stroll, even in Limerick. My own mother-in-law said she noticed a stretch in early December. I asked Conor if that would be enough to get her put into a nice home, but he said wait until the New Year. Yes, he’s a sentimental eejit, but that’s one of the things I love about him.

You’ll notice a few differences when you move here from Sweden. The people are slightly uglier, and there are fewer Volvos. Unless you go to Kinsale. (More Volvos, but the people are still on the plain side.)