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Hello old stock. My wife Tina hacked into my Tinder account and let’s just say I need a solicitor. Do you have a number for Laura Wasser, the hotshot lawyer hired by Angelina Jolie, before Tina gets her hands on my millions? Reggie, Montenotte, do you think I could have a fling with Angelina?
I’d say there’s a better chance that she might adopt you. You’re dead right to hire decent representation before Tina gets her act together. Forget about the kids.
The important thing when there’s money involved is who gets custody of the solicitor. My Conor found out I was having an affair three years ago, but it was with the best divorce lawyer in Cork so there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. It ended when he asked would I be up for a threesome. I said no, because I’m not from Kinsale.
‘Allo. I was driving from Dublin to Cork on Wednesday when I saw incredible traffic in your midlands. What was going on? Philippe, Brussels and Crosshaven, there was also quite a smell.
That sounds like the Ploughing Championships. It’s an annual festival, where people from rural Ireland gather in their expensive 4x4s and complain that they haven’t got a shilling. It’s basically Electric Picnic without the quinoa.
They have loads of stands, showcasing things that appeal to culchies.
So it’s not a great place if you are in the market for a bit of soap. You should have called in for a few hours, Philippe. There would have been no problem with the mud. Once word got around there was a fella from Brussels on site, the farmers would be queuing up to lick your boots.
I’m worried my children will end up with a sense of entitlement. It must be hard to keep your feet on the ground when your mother picks you up from school in diamond encrusted Hunter wellies. Is there some kind of charity work they can do where they won’t come in contact with Norries? Maeve, Rochestown Road, I’m thinking of getting Taylor Swift’s nose.
I didn’t know it was for sale. I know your pain. My posh cousin is terrified that her boys will grow up in delusions of grandeur. Mainly because she called them William and Harry and changed the name of their house to Windsoria.
Anyway she signed them up to do a bit of collecting for the poor, only to find they were assigned a spot on North Main Street. That’s Downtown Norryville according to my cousin. She pulled a few strings and got them moved somewhere more appropriate. That’s why you’ll see two young fellas in high-viz jackets just inside the door of Brown Thomas.
How’re oo goin on? The Daft Sister is over from London and didn’t she buy me a book. It’s a bestseller called the Little Book of Hygge, which she says will show me how to be as happy as people in Denmark. I’ve never met a Danish person so I’m not sure if this is a good thing. Anyway, do you think I should read it? Ger, Castletownbere, I’m the only man down here who doesn’t have three names.
According to a number of surveys, the Danes are the happiest people in the world. Which is amazing when you think about it, because they’re not even from Cork.
Hygge, pronounced hue-gah, is a posh word for cosy. I just finished the book, it mainly involves eating cakes every night by candlelight. Try it if you like. But instead of using the word hygge in Castletownbere, they’ll say “Chryst lads, would you look at the size of Ger?”
C’mere, what’s the story with pears? The old doll has me on an Operation Transformation diet so I can lose weight like your man Gerard Kean, who is too posh to spell his surname the same way as Roy. Anyway, I went into the supermarket and bought ready-to-eat pears. I can only assume they are meant for sharks, because I nearly lost a tooth. What do you think I should do? Dowcha Donie, Ballincollig, I’d be nervous about fruit.
I’d be nervous about a Ballincollig man who isn’t after a spot of compo. You’re as unique as a Kilmallock man with his own tooth brush. Let me explain how fruit works. You’re not supposed to eat it.
The only reason Irish people buy fruit is so the checkout guy won’t think you are a complete lardarse for buying 11 frozen pizzas.
When you get home, throw it in the bin. The general refuse one obviously, because the walk out to the compost bin is too much like exercise.
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