So would I. I appreciate that falling in love with your cousin is considered romantic below in Kerry. We actually have a different name for it here in Cork. That’s why people east of Ballyvourney try and find if someone is their cousin before hopping into bed with them Of course, that’s tricky, given that 57% of the locals here are called Murphy. (And 50% of Murphys are called Jerry or Sinéad.) My friend Cliona reckoned she had a clever way to spot a relation of hers. Before lobbing the gob with a boy she fancied, she’d ask if he had a crazy relation in Bandon called Noely. Guess what? Everyone in Cork has a crazy relation in Bandon called Noely. She nearly ended up joining the nuns. (Imagine!)
I’d say they’re kept busy. (It’s no joke being plain.) Your Ken thinks of everything, all right — like how to marry a woman who wouldn’t cop that she is being brought away on a rugby weekend. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Monica, but Ken is using Valentine’s as a cover to go with the lads and watch Ireland play Italy in the Six Nations. I doubt your Saturday night dinner will be very romantic. Unless you like listening to Ken and the lads guffawing about the time they flushed Hoggy’s head down the toilet after he dropped the ball against Dolphin. I’d actually rather go to Killarney. It’s that bad.
There’s always a dog at these things. I brought my Conor on a lead to his posh friend’s sex party last summer. It turns out we misread the invite, and when we got there everyone else was dressed up as characters from Star Wars. It was very embarrassing. For them — it must be awful to be such a pack of nerds. Poor Conor thought the night would never end. Mainly because he wasn’t allowed up on their new couch from Caseys.
That’s low for an Italian. I know a lot of love rats find it easier to stay home alone for Valentine’s Night. Let’s just say the restaurants in Kinsale are very quiet this time of year. Don’t try what I did once, and suggest to your partners that you should stay at home and have a night of phone sex. I was going great guns with my three boyfriends, until my mother confused the matter, with a text asking if I’d like to go for a walk in the Lee Fields the following Sunday. Whatever kind of answer she was expecting, “only if you strap me to a bench, big boy” wasn’t one of them.
I’m fairly unsurprised. The only thing you have going for you here is low expectations. Your old doll must know by now that Valentine’s is going to be more disappointing than being the ‘lucky’ winner of a weekend break in Kanturk.