Sorting out Cork people for ages.
Q: Now listen up Paddy. I’ve just come from a meeting of senior Conservatives, I hope there are no photographs leaked because some people see torch-light procession in a hilltop castle and think, bloody hell, it’s the Nazis.
Anyway, it would appear that the oiks who buy their furniture rather than inherit it were upset by Jacob Rees-M lounging around the House of C on Tuesday, so we’ve come up with a fiendishly clever plan to give his brand a bit of a boost.
To show that he’s a good sport and what not, he will travel to selected homes in your little republic and allow some lucky spud-munchers to photograph him lying on their sofa. Huzzah!
Would you like to take part?
— Lord Edward d’Servant-Shagger, your servant, as if.
A:We don’t even allow our dog up on the sofa, let alone Jacob Rees-Mogg.
Here’s a word to the wise though — could someone tell Mr Mogg that that every time he uses the term ‘our Irish friends’, we add another 100 to the ‘years of oppression’ total.
Q: How’re oo’ goin’ on? Herself hasn’t had an orgasm in 43 years of marriage, on account of the way it was explicitly banned by the parish priest, God bless him.
The poor man went to his eternal reward last month, and wasn’t he replaced by a Fr Happy-Clappy from Dublin who told us God isn’t the type to judge a woman for having a bit of enjoyment.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than herself was on Amazon buying me a sex-guide for elderly Irish farmers called ‘That’s my belly button you gobshite’.
I’ve read it from cover to cover and think I have the hang of things, but I’m wondering would it be ok to practise first on someone else?
— Dan Paddy Andy, head out beyond Dunmanway until it starts to feel like the start of a horror movie.
A: I asked my friend Try Anything Tricia if she’d be up for it. She said absolutely. I said why? She said, I’ve always fancied a feel off a Dunmanway intellectual. I said, what gives you the idea he’s a Dunmanway intellectual. She said, he’s after reading a whole book.
Q: My father hates spending money because he’s originally from Glengarriff. (I was the only guy in my class in Pres in the 80s who didn’t own four Javelin jackets.) Anyway, he insists on holding onto his cars for five years, which means they have to do an NCT.
Didn’t he ring this morning and say, Colm, take my car for the NCT like a good young fella or I’ll write you out of the will.
Not only have I never been for an NCT, no one I know has ever been for one. In fact, I have it on good authority I will be the first man from Sunday’s Well to visit Little Island for something other than a game of golf.
When is a good time to book if I want to avoid the lower orders?
— Frank, Sunday’s Well.
A: My Posh Cousin has the same NCT problem as you (the mother is from Boherbue.)
I said, how do you manage sitting in a waiting room in Little Island once a year? She said, I’ve a mantra. I said, go on. She said, at least it isn’t Blarney, at least it isn’t Blarney, at least it isn’t Blarney.
Q: Hello old stock. Myself and Marjorie are back at relationship counselling again after a misunderstanding about the term open-marriage. She is of the view we should be allowed to have sex with a stranger twice a year; I’m more, let’s open a chain of vegan restaurants with a 31-year-old nymphomaniac from Malmo.
Monika, is her name, a total sizzler. She was the best looking woman I’d ever seen, until I set eyes on my relationship counsellor, Bernadine. Awful name, incredible legs.
I’m dying to signal my attraction to her without getting caught by The Marj.
Hoggy is Hyper-Woke these day, he tells me the chicky babes aren’t into the old winking any more, so what else could I try?
— Reggie, Blackrock
A: I love a sly come and get me. My Conor brought me to an Italian restaurant for my birthday on Monday.
The waiter said, what would you like me to get you? I said, all turned on. (Forward me on the number of your relationship counsellor when you get a chance.)
Q: My six-year-old Hugo arrived in from school (fee-paying) yesterday with a birthday party invitation.
Sorry if this makes me sound like a snob, but it’s going to be in one of those places with a giant play-area and party of Norries at the next table force-feeding sugar-coated chicken nuggets into a tattooed two-year-old named after a Liverpool player.
Amazingly, even though we deliberately chose a primary school that teaches the cello, Swedish and C++, all of Hugo’s friends are going! Is there a danger we’ll catch the Norry Flu?
—Eleanor, Kinsale, we have two Volvos
A: No kidding. I asked my cousin the GP if you can catch a virus from the lower orders.
She said, well like, is she planning to score with someone at this children’s play area?
I said, probably, she’s from Kinsale.