I normally advise Italian men to wear something loose, so they can get it back on quickly, if my Conor arrives home early from golf. Now, your other question, about romance.
On a romance scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is Piazza San Marco in Venice at dawn, and 10 is Puck Fair, Munster Final Day comes in at 435. That drops to 537 when Clare are involved, because it’s hard to think of love when you see a busload of men drinking milk out of a bodhrán. In case you are wondering, bodhrán is an Irish word that means ‘a drum for simpletons’.
You obviously like to stand out.
I’m the wrong person to ask about this. I haven’t had a reputation worth protecting since my name appeared on a Facebook page called Just Another Weekend In Kinsale.
I checked with my Posh Cousin, who’s a bit of a nun when it comes to sex.
She said you haven’t a hope of convincing the good people of Dunmanway. I said why not.
She said because there aren’t any. Very harsh.
In English royal circles, that places her between a stableboy and Prince Andrew. I have written a book for Cork snobs who end up out of their depth with British aristocrats.
It’s called They Might Not Have Heard of Pres.
The first chapter is ‘Don’t Name Drop Graham Norton, They Find Him a Bit Common’.
I also have some advice for snobs everywhere — nothing improves marriage prospects faster than when your sister marries a future king. (No offence, Pippa.)
My Conor struggles to get his off, and by then I’ve usually lost interest.
I talked to my brother there, who specialises in placing average girls in posh houses with a horndog husband.
He said there has been a surge in demand this summer and he can’t find any plain girls.
I said, did you try Clonmel? He said no, but I like the way you are thinking.
I do be laughing at the irony. (Look it up.)
I’m not suggesting all sorts of carry on goes on in the Gaeltacht.
But if Irish is the only thing he picks up, you’ll be doing pretty well. And you’re as well off to send him to Kerry.
My friend, Lucy, sent her son to the Donegal Gaeltacht and he came back speaking Irish like a snake. (They’re mad for hissing.)
It’s a mystery to me why the men in Donegal bother with Irish at all. Two words of English from one of them, and I’m getting undressed. (Particularly if it’s Shay Given.)