Sorting out Cork people for ages...
I’m afraid I bought a Carlow reg BMW in a moment of weakness. The price was nice and low and I thought it was fantastic value until I arrived back in Blackrock and no one would talk to me. (I was actually asked to stop driving into Cork Constitution RFC in my “shit car”.) I don’t want to be too harsh on Carlow, but the place is a dump and nothing good ever came out of it except maybe Kathryn Thomas. (The bikinis she used to wear on ‘No Frontiers’, happy days.) Anyway, would it be alright if I just removed the W from the CW on my licence plate? — Martin, Ballintemple, I’m getting sick of my own company.
I’m not surprised. I asked my Posh Cousin, what’s the story with driving a car from one of the not-Cork counties. She said my main advice would be never drive a car with a Kerry reg. I said why? She said it’s impossible to get the smell of goat out of the back seat.
My daughter is planning to disgrace our family. She wants to stand on Oliver Plunkett St on Saturday in her underwear, with ‘this is not consent’ written all over her body. I’ve no problem with this as such, but she is refusing to wear Brown Thomas knickers. (Imagine.) In fact, she is insisting on wearing Penney’s knickers to show that she is no better than women from the northside. (Imagine.) This public display of solidarity with the less well-off is more than enough to get me kicked out of the WhatsApp group, Douglas Women Who Know What you Earn. What would you advise, to spare our family looking poor? — Monica, Douglas, I was thinking of standing next to her in a fur coat.
Fantastic idea. If nothing else, it will get you into the Out and About section in next week’s Examiner. My aunt is Cork’s leading expert on tasteful boasting. (She’s from the Model Farm Road.) I said, is there anything worse than standing on Oliver Plunkett St in cheap knickers? She said there is and it’s standing on Oliver Plunkett St in no knickers. I said stop right there, I’m getting flashbacks of my hen. (I’m basically a different person after the 16th rum and Coke.)
I’m a qualified sex therapist, practising in Kinsale. (The phone never stops ringing.) I genuinely don’t mind telling you that I’m one of the richest people in Munster, nothing in my living room cost less than five grand, except for the au pair, when I let her in to do the bit of cleaning. My problem is I’ve started fantasising about a client, a local mechanic with erectile dysfunction. I realise this is highly inappropriate, because he obviously didn’t go to Pres. Is there anything to be said for a quick bang-bang just to get him out of my system? — Tanya, Kinsale, I’ve no way of telling if he fancies me.
Ain’t that the truth. Sorry now, but fantasising about a man with erectile dysfunction is extremely deviant, even for Kinsale. I mean, I’d say something if he was rich. (Such as, “Why don’t you whisk me off to Paris, I’ll drink loads of champagne and ignore the fact that you’re Frankie Flaccid?”)
I was sitting in the dentist’s the other day when I spotted something called the ‘Evening Ech’o. (I believe it’s read by people who work with their hands.) I was amazed to see a headline saying that Ballincollig and Carrigaline have been identified as burglary hotspots. Far be it from me to lecture the criminal classes, but why are they trying to nick stuff from people with nothing? Sorry if this makes me sound like a snob, but Ballincollig and Carrigaline are shorthand for fur coat and no knickers. It’s time someone told the robbing fraternity there is no point trying to steal from the nouveau riche. Could you pass that on to them? — Noelle, Lee Road.
My Conor’s sister is in the Guards. I said, I need to get a message to the criminals. She said, don’t you know any yourself? I said no, I’ve never even met someone involved in white collar crime. She said, I thought you lived in Ballinlough! (We like our flights to Jersey in fairness.)
Hello old stock. They’re organising the Christmas party here in work and HR called me in for a little chat. Basically, I’m not allowed to bring my best friend Hoggy as my plus 1, after a misunderstanding at last year’s event. (One or two of the chicky babes completely misinterpreted his Full Monty.) I’ve come up with an ingenious solution. This year, Hoggy can go as Hannibal Lecter tied to a hand-trolley and I’ll feed him the bevvys through a straw. Do you think HR will go for it? — Reggie, Blackrock.
I’ve heard some terrible ideas in my time. (I worked as a PR consultant for the Patrick’s Street Traffic Ban.) But your Hoggy plan is about as likely to work as a hospital consultant over Christmas.