Hola. I have started going out with this Irish guy at work, he is very nice. The only problem is, his breath smells so bad that his friends call him Carrigaline. (I didn’t understand this at first. Then I went to Carrigaline.)
How can I tell him to fix this without hurting his feelings?
– Maria, Barcelona and Douglas, it’s extra bad in the morning.
That’s when his friends call him Youghal. I feel your pain though. The worst thing about that is it’s a complete no-no for morning sex. My Conor’s breath smells like a second-hand underwear shop in Killorglin.
I can sense him in the bed next to me some mornings, getting ready to make a move. That’s when I say, “My Conor, you’d have a better chance of persuading me to go for a swim in Atlantic Pond”. That does the trick.
How’re oo’ goin’ on? Herself is after falling in with a pack of entrepreneurs and didn’t she come home last night and say that I have no head for business. We’ll see about that, says I. Now I appreciate it’s a long shot, but do you think there is any chance Conor McGregor would agree to fight my prize bull, Risteárd? I know Conor isn’t really a matador, but then he isn’t a boxer either. Would you have a phone number for him by any chance?
– Dan Paddy Andy, Kinsale, I have a cousin inside in C103, so media coverage shouldn’t be a problem.
I can’t see anything wrong with this. Mainly because I had a second G&T after lunch and I reckon everything is fantastic.
The only hurdle would be persuading McGregor’s people that Las Vegas has anything in common with Kinsale. One is an over-priced pleasure palace where you can indulge in all sorts of perversion. And the other is Las Vegas.
Hey man. I’m like totally arriving in Cork soon to scout locations for the European HQ of my start-up. (We have this cool app that takes your job and gives it to a robot, right in front of your kids.) Anyway, my millionaire friend, Kkris with two Ks, has an office in Cork and he says nobody stops at pedestrian crossing over there. Is that like true?
– Karl, San Francisco, Kkris with two Ks tell me that Mahon is nice.
I like a man with a sense of humour. I asked my posh cousin if it’s safe to use a pedestrian crossing in Cork. She said not if the streets are named after Irish patriots. I said why. She said because that means the area is full of Norries. I said so what?
She said so what if one of them jumped into my white Range Rover and said hello, girl, would you like a look at my budgie. I said would you not be devastated if you knocked somebody down? She said of course I would, if they were from Blackrock.
Ciao. I just got an email from my twin brother, Marco, in Cork. He wants me to fly over from Italy and take three of his girlfriends off his hands, because he can’t cope with the demand. He thought he’d face more competition from Irish men, but they all wear tight jeans and pointy brown leather shoes. I’m laughing down the sleeve of my immaculate shirt at the photos he sends me of your Irish men. Do you think I should fly over?
– Pepe, Milan, what are you doing Saturday?
Standing at arrivals in Cork Airport in a virtually non-existent mini-skirt. I should be easy enough to spot unless there is a flight in from the Canaries. (The Norries love dressing too sexy.) I know what you mean about Irish men’s fashion. My Conor’s clothes look like the brainchild of someone who did a Diploma in Dressin’ Swanky at the Kilmallock School of Slacks. He walked in the other day and said, do I remind you of Nathan Carter. I said yes, unfortunately.
Conas atá tú, girl? I don’t want you to be thinking I’ve anything against foreigners, but I sent my son to Gaelscoil so he wouldn’t have to sit next to one. After just three days this week, he do have more words than my cúpla focail. It turns out they’re teaching him as Gaeilge there. You’d swear they are trying to promote the Irish language or something. Anyway, where can I brush up on my own Irish, to keep up with the young fella.
– Colm, Glasheen, some of my closest friends do be immigrants.
I’d say they do be dying to return home. I tried listening to Radio na Gaeltachta last year in an attempt to improve my Irish. I ended up listening to a documentary about a guy called Paidi Mike, who couldn’t stop crying because of the thing that happened back on the island. Or maybe it was a cookery show. Honestly, it was hard to make out.
The presenter was speaking Connemara Irish, so I might as well have been listening to Radio Abu Dhabi.
© Irish Examiner Ltd. All rights reserved