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How’re oo’ goin’ on? Herself was a bit generous pouring her drop of vodka last night and didn’t she come clean on something that has been bothering her recently, namely me. It turns out I’m a very boring man, afraid to try anything new. I said we’ll see about that Nora, and in a moment of madness, told her I’m going to start using the new self-service tills below in the supermarket. She said you’ll need to do better than that. So now I’m taking up mixed martial arts. Is this a good move? –Dan De Dan-Dan, head out beyond Inchigeelagh until you see a hand-written sign saying, ‘FREE Gina, Dale, Haze and the Champions t-shirt with every carton of eggs’.
I checked with my gym bunny niece. She said you probably want to be the next Conor McGregor. I said Conor Who? She said, you know, the vulgar loudmouth from Dublin who loves parading around in underwear. I said, are you sure that isn’t Vogue Williams?
Hello old stock. Awkward times here in Chez Reggie, where I’ve
developed some impure thoughts about a new nun in the area. (Early-30s from Croatia, it’s a divine mystery why she didn’t become a super model.) I can’t discuss it with my wife, Marjorie, she has enough on her plate after discovering I have a second wife, in Kinsale Yacht Club. What should I do? –– Reggie, Blackrock, I was half-thinking of bringing it up in confession.
Don’t do that. I find priests can get a bit territorial when it comes to
fancying a nun. Did I ever mention I’m banned from confession in my church? I told the priest I’d been
having impure thoughts about Simon Zebo. He laughed and said we get a lot of that in here. I said really, have you had a few dirty thoughts about him yourself, Father? That didn’t really work as a joke for Fr Dryballs.
Hi, do you know anywhere I can get a last-minute boob job? I was going to get them touched up in London, to blow away the competition at the school run in Ballintemple next week. Unfortunately, my guy over there is no longer handling foreigners, as it were, because he’s incredibly pro-Brexit. Is there any chance you could get me an appointment in Cork before Monday morning? — Monica, Blackrock, if
you do find someone, ask if there is anything I could do with my chin (photo enclosed).
I showed the photo to my Posh Cousin. She suggested you convert
to Islam and wear a burqa. (She’s
nothing if not practical.) I said what are Monica’s chances of getting a boob job over the weekend. She said lower than a Killorglin man on
hearing the words, “Ok, Mikey, it’s your turn to get into the bath.” I said there’s nothing lower than that.
She said except Monica’s boobs on Monday morning.
We had a good laugh at that.
Top o’ the begorra to ya. Only
yesterday I realised my vote for Donald Trump was a big mistake and the clown is going to start a nuclear war. So, I upped and googled ‘safe place in event of nuclear war’ and what should come back on me screen, but the grand old town of Skibbereen, across the pond that carried my
forefathers to a life of liberty. Do you think I should move my family there? – Jeremiah ‘Rinty’ McMoriarty Jnr III, Chicago, I’m Irish-American.
You hid that well. They say there is nothing worse than a slow death due to radiation poisoning. I say you should see Skibbereen on a wet
Tuesday afternoon. That’s as close as you’ll get to the very centre of hell. Or Dunmanway, as it’s known locally. My cousin flew over from Boston
recently, to check out a move to rural Ireland. I said how did you find the food. He said irresistible. I said I can see that. Yanks — ye seem to have non-stop munchies.
I can’t forgive my husband for his infidelity. It isn’t that he cheated
because that comes with the territory when you live in the posh end of
Sunday’s Well. It’s that the woman in question is only from Togher. (I never suspected a thing until he ordered a pint of Carling at my niece’s 21st in Highfield Rugby Club. Everyone just stared, as if we were a family of plumbers.) Anyway, I have this recurring dream now where I arrive at the checkout in Lidl and the girl there says, “Your Ken do be very well hung, girl.” What should I do? – Fionnula, Sundays Well.
Maybe you should switch to Aldi. Only messing. As if someone from Sunday’s Well would be seen dead in Aldi! I know how hard it is to get over your partner doing the dirt. I can see the pain in My Conor’s eyes when he’s sobbing on the couch, saying,
“Is it my wonky nose?” and “Would it help if I learned to speak Italian?” Yes and not really, My Conor, but thanks for making the effort.
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