You’d do anything to hide your lazy eye. Trust me, you are never safe from Posh Cork on holidays. I was caught coming out of Lidl in Marbella by the former goalkeeper of our hockey team in school. Five minutes later, she had a video of me up on a Facebook page called St Angela’s Girls Who Went a Bit Norry. When I got home, wasn’t there a food-parcel from my former classmates outside my door, with a note saying, “Please don’t contact us or greet us on the street?” The parcel was in a Lidl bag and all. Fair play, I thought that was a lovely touch. Vicious, but lovely.
Dear Don, I am surprised and indeed saddened that you consider my observation to be sexist in nature. While the term bearded might exclude women in other towns, I can assure you this is not the case in Killorglin. This fact was brought home to me in no uncertain terms during a recent visit to the town, when a bearded individual I met in a pub was later found to have nothing worth talking about on the meat and two veg front.
Yours in disappointment, Audrey.
The first thing I say when I meet a refugee these days is, sorry about the recent weather. They say, no, it’s still better than being carpet bombed for six days in a row. I say, wait until you see November. The main thing I’d say to a group of refugees in your part of Cork is, sorry for your troubles. You could have been housed in some place civilised, but instead you are down here in Grimoleague, listening to a nervous little man who smells like something died in his wellies. (No offence.)
Sorry to hear that. A quick tip for any visitor: if you want to be taken seriously in Ireland, never put the words ‘lovely county’ and Waterford in the same sentence. The scenery is nice enough, but the locals are a fright. I heard that, after a visiting Harvard professor from Harvard spent an afternoon in Tramore, he went home and told his brainbox friends they might have to rethink the theory of evolution.
The best thing about Waterford these days is they got a new cycle path. So, there’s a decent chance they won’t bore you to death about their blaas. (That’s a bread roll for people with low expectations.)
What a catch. I had a similar problem with this hot Italian I fancied at work. I was afraid to lob the gob in case I passed out, so I asked him if he ever tried a Fisherman’s Friend. He said no, but he tried a fisherman’s wife when her husband was out at sea. Italian men — you just wouldn’t be up to them.