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Hello dear. I have started a line with an older man from Carrigaline. We’re both into free love and mod cons, so yesterday he sent me a picture of his ding-dong via WhatsApp. Do you know where I can get it enlarged? — Emily, Sunday’s Well, I’m 84 years of age.
Thanks for that image. And I don’t mean the photo you enclosed with your letter. (It actually makes my Conor look like a player.) I don’t mind old people having sex. In fairness, you have to find something to do until Dáithí and Maura come back on RTÉ every afternoon. But is there any chance you could stop telling us what goes on in the bedroom? (Please tell me it’s only the bedroom.) There is only one thing more disgusting than sex between two people with bus passes. And that’s sex between three people with bus passes. Or, socialising, as they call it in Kinsale.
Hi, I’m a solicitor who has done very well for herself. Anyway, I’m opening a new office on the South Mall (my mother is beside herself) and was wondering what is the maximum height I can put my name on the front door without people thinking I’m a complete langer? — Grainne, Mount Oval, I specialise in libel.
So do I, which is why I’m in court Tuesday week because of things I said about Dungarvan. Apparently Killorglin wanted to join Dungarvan in a class action, but the judge ruled it’s illegal to use the word class and Killorglin in the same sentence. Still, If I lose I’ll have to pay costs, which in this case includes hiring someone to scrub down the court-house once the Waterford crowd have gone home. Anyway, you want me to tell you how a solicitor on the Mall can avoid people thinking she’s a langer. You do realise that’s the definition of impossible. I’d say you’d have a better chance of selling a book called It’s Never Too Late to Learn Long Division, to the people of Listowel.
How’re oo goin on? Herself said I need to buck up and get with it, or she’ll leave me for a banjo player she knows below in Leap. Anyway, I’ve looked on the web, and it seems like all the stars are writing letters to their teenage selves. Do you think I should give it a lash or what? — Ed Mick Mackey, head west out of Bandon until the people become noticeably poorer.
I see you live in Dunmanway. I’m a bit confused by all these 30-somethings sending ‘letters’ to their imaginary selves. Surely they should just send a short Snapchat video saying, “Hey babes, you’ll end up completely self-obsessed and you won’t be able to afford a house!” I’m not sure what a West Cork man should write to his younger self. Other than, “How’re oo goin on? Don’t for a moment think it’s going to last between you and that goat.”
We’re devastated here in Chez Monica. My 16-year-old, Sophie, came home last night and told us she’s gay. I said no problem until she added that she’s seeing a girl from Douglas Community School. She’s refusing to tell me what this girl’s father does for a living, so I presume it involves overalls. Anyway, do you know where I might find her a nice girl from Scoil Mhuire or Mount Mercy? — Monica, Douglas Road, so sad she’ll never go out with a boy from Pres.
I’ve been out with a few of them in my time. There’s nothing to be sad about. You think you have problems. My Posh Cousin’s gay son started seeing a guy from West Kerry. I said, camp? She said no, he is more from the Dingle side of the peninsula. The old ones are the best, as I told my middle-aged lecturer in college, twice a week, until he bought me an Audi TT.
Hello old stock. I love a lady with big breasts, which has given me quite the dilemma. I can either pay for my lovely wife of 42 years, Marjorie, to get a boob job; alternatively, I could start an affair with this well-endowed lady in Monkstown Golf Club, who has been giving me the eye. Which one would be cheaper? — Reggie, Blackrock, I have all my own hair.
Pity that most of it is down your back. I priced that up for you there. The cost of running a Posh Cork mistress is six grand a year. That includes food, drink, gifts and trips up and down to the Hotel Europe in a blacked-out Range Rover. That cost could be significantly reduced if the lady fancies you and splits the bill, but that’s unlikely given most women wouldn’t touch you with a pole the length of Oliver Plunkett Street (No offence.) A boob job for Marjorie would cost five grand. You might also consider doing something in return, to make her happy. Would you like me to price up a divorce?
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