I hear posh Cork is taking desperate measures, now they have to stop using Facebook as a way of flaunting their wealth. I just looked out the window there and saw a plane flying over Blackrock with a banner saying “Reggie said yes to the second swimming pool!” He also said yes when I cornered him at Cork Week in 2002, but I won’t be flying any banners to that affect. Poor Reggie is nearly broke from buying apology jewellery for his missus.
I didn’t know the Wolfe Tones were still on the go. I rang my Italian ex there and asked him the best way to drink espresso. He said lying naked in the bath with me. I really should have married him. My golden rule for coffee is don’t touch it after 2pm. There is nothing worse than twitching around in bed at 4am. Unless it’s with a drop-dead, sex god from Milan. Happy days.
He’d prefer cash. You might have to wait a while. A two-page spread by Tommy Barker is the Cork equivalent of a knighthood. It’s like your own personal visit from the Pope. Or Ronan O’Gara. Sorry to be the one to point this out, but €23,500 for a kitchen is a bit stingy. I checked with my posh cousin, who went to Scoil Mhuire. She said that 23 grand is the kind of money you’d want to spend on a Lazy Susan. Anything less is, as she put it, ‘a bit St Al’s.’
You sound about as much fun as an evening of prayer in Macroom. I can’t say anything definite about the bus routes in Cork because Bus Éireann has changed a lot of them recently. The reaction hasn’t been great. Some of the changes are actually less popular than monogamy in Kinsale. They got in a lot of trouble after they took away a few bus-stops in Ballyphehane. This breaks the golden rule of like on Leeside – there is nothing worse than a ’Hane-y with a grudge. In case you haven’t guessed, ’Hane-y is the name we use for people from Ballyphehane. They are also sometimes known as Jerry.
Shoot away, they say nothing is out of bounds at a wedding in Bandon. (Except a present over 80 quid. They’d be careful with their money.) Your main job is to give a speech. It should last no more than seven minutes and leave out the time the groom snogged a transsexual in Berlin. (We’ve all been there. And I don’t mean Berlin.) Your other job is to publicly compliment the bridesmaids.
My guess is you’ll struggle to keep that under seven minutes. Your final duty is to dance with the Maid of Honour. She’ll have her work cut out holding on to that title, after five minutes in your busy hands.