Audrey has been sorting out Cork people for ages...
How’re oo’ goin’ on? I’ve been friends with Mick Mike Mickey since we were four, and that wasn’t today nor yesterday. We’ve had great times down the years, and I still remember the celebrations locally when he became the first man in Dunmanway to own two pairs of socks. Anyway, I was reflecting on our friendship last night when it occurred to me that the man has been boring the hole out of me for the past 20 years. I’d sooner go on holidays with Shane Ross than meet the hoor again. How do think I might break it off with him, in an entirely un-gay manner?
— Dan Paddy Andy, head out towards Drimoleague until you see a man practising, it’s not you, it’s me.
I hate breaking up with a friend. You don’t even have the consolation of goodbye sex, unless you’re on your third bottle of gin. But look, time is on your side. My advice is say nothing and wait until you get some good news about Mick Mike Mickey from RIP.ie.
I’m a member of the WhatsApp group, ‘Size Four Blackrock Moms Who are Talking About You Behind your Fat Back’. I put a post up the other night saying my little Darragh is available for a playdate, because I love looking at other people’s kitchens after spending the price of a Skehard Road semi-d on my own. #LoadedAndProud. Anyway, a certain RK (well if it isn’t Rachel in Lindville) invited him over, so I brought a bottle of M&S prosecco, you don’t want people talking. Didn’t she put it in the fridge and take out a bottle from Lidl, which is like saying, “I bet you went to Christ the King.” (As if.) Should I stand for being insulted like this?
— Katie, Blackrock Road, I can’t stop crying.
Hilaire. I asked my Posh Cousin about this. She shook her head and said there is no excuse for giving someone prosecco from that supermarket. I said Lidl? She said no, Marks and Spencer, that’s straight out of the playbook for Ballincollig. #TryingTooHard
G’day, we’ve just moved back to Cork after seven years in Melbourne. We’ve bought a place in a new development here in Glanmire, and while the price tag suggests we’re in a safe-space, free from the lower orders, you can never be sure because of fecking social mobility. (They’ll let anyone become a solicitor these days.) Do you know a surefire way of telling if someone is a northsider, just by looking at their house?
— Blathnaid, Glanmire, I don’t want to start making friends only to turn around two weeks later and say “Soz, don’t do Norries.”
I know your pain. It’s impossible to tell if someone is a Norry, now that rich people have started going around in gym gear. I asked my Posh Cousin about the house thing. She said the key is the amount of glass in the front door. No glass, you’re talking Pres or Christians. Anything over 30% glass and you’re talking majorettes and 20 John Player Blue. #SteerClear
C’mere what’s the story with imagining your old doll doing the biz with some langer who just ordered a green curry. She’s just started working for Deliveroo and I do be scourged imagining her delivering Thai food to some nob out in Douglas and going inside for a quickie because he do have more money than me. The problem is, I’m kind of turned on by this as well, do you know that kind of way? Does this make me a pervert now like?
— Dowcha Donie, Blackpool, promise you won’t tell the lads. Promise you don’t think I know anyone in Blackpool.
My best friend studied the theory of sexual fantasies in college. (I was more into experiments in the lab — they almost put a plaque up for me in the Science Building.) I said, is it normal to imagine your partner with someone else? She said, for how long? I said, for ever. (Things aren’t great with My Conor.)
Hello old stock. I was in a taxi last night when the driver said they are looking for a name for the footbridge by the Metropole — I didn’t answer because it’s best not to get involved in chit-chat with the servant classes. This got me thinking though. For too long now, the bridges of Cork have been named after nuns and Norries and hurlers. It’s time to recognise the lifeblood of the city, wealthy people who never stopped drinking gin and still say things like, “I don’t know anyone who drives a Skoda.” So, long story short, I think this new bridge should be called Pont Du Reggie. Do you think this is a runner?
— Reggie, Blackrock, remind me why we need this bridge again.
So the servant classes can get a cheap bus to Dublin. I don’t think you’ve thought this through. Call the bridge ‘Reggie’, and you’ll have northsiders walking all over you for the next 200 years. In the Posh Cork that is the actual way they define the seventh circle of hell.