Ask Audrey: Fota is full of wide-eyed animals, like visitors from Tipp

Got a dilemma? No problem! Ask Audrey has all the answers.

Hello old stock. The wife, Marjorie, found my latest affair phone in the glove compartment of the Range Rover last night. It’s fair to say things are somewhere between ‘Frosty’ and ‘Expensive Lamp Throwing’ here in Chez Reggie. I can see now it is time for me to change the way I live my life. So, what is the best way to keep in touch with my lovely ladies without using a phone?

– Reggie, Blackrock, I was thinking of treating Marjorie to a new chin.

I’d say she’d prefer a new husband. It’s virtually impossible for a southsider to organise his affairs without a phone. This doesn’t apply to Norries, who can always send a message using one of their racing pigeons. It’s a tricky time though. My Conor found a second phone once in the pocket of my Helly Hansen. He said what’s that. I said it’s an expensive ski jacket, insanely popular with women who go to Munster Rugby Matches. We had a good old laugh about it, on the way to relationship counselling.

C’mere, what’s the story with lentils. I do be eating them like mad at the moment because I’m pretending to be a vegan so I can get off with this hippy one from Macroom. The problem they’re making me fart something awful. It’s the kind of smell you’d get if you wound down the window driving through Charleville, do you know that kind of a way? Do you think the hippy one will mind?

– Paul, Bandon Road, they taste awful, like.

Please tell me you mean the taste of lentils. As relaxed as Macroom hippies are about hygiene, I find a lot of them draw the line at tasting your own farts. I know your pain though. I pretended to hate fox-hunting once so I could get closer to this red-hot animal rights activist from Kanturk. Unfortunately, I got too close and he smelt like he was wearing a scent called Dungarvan Pour L’Homme.

Top o’ the begorrah to ya. Myself and Coleen will shortly arrive on a mighty cruise liner in the grand old town of Cobh, and isn’t it the way that we’d be looking for something to do. Do you have any recommendations for a son of old Ireland?

– Mike O’Mac’O’Moriarty-Murphy Jnr III, Chicago, we’d be having ancestors from Skibbereen.

I’m sorry to hear that. And there was I thinking you might be Chinese. I think you should definitely travel around. The definition of a masochist around here is someone who knows there is a train leaving Cobh, but still doesn’t get on it. If you are getting on the train, I’d definitely recommend a visit to Fota Wildlife Park. There’s no shortage of wide-eyed animals covered in their own filth. And that’s just the visitors from Tipperary.

I’m the maid of honour for my friend’s wedding, we’ve known each other since school. (Regina Mundi, before it went a bit common.) Unfortunately, she’s not great in a plane, so the hen party will be here in Ireland. Do you know a cool and sophisticated spot where we won’t bump into a shower of Norries?

— Aisling, Douglas, we wouldn’t mind a place that’s full of bogmen.

Why don’t you just go to Rearden’s? You won’t find any Norry hen parties in there. They are all down in Kinsale, saying “You’re grand boy, we’re not really looking for a threesome” to some horny local. (As if there’s any other kind.)

I checked with my Posh Cousin. She said nowhere is off limits for Norries anymore and you’re bound to end up sitting next to someone called Lisa who says, “I do be getting married too, girl.” I said why is that. The Posh Cousins said Norries have been upwardly mobile ever since they abolished third level fees in

1996.

How’re oo goin’ on? Herself is after falling in with a pack of Netflix enthusiasts inside in Union Hall and didn’t they put her on to this new crack called Ozark. It’s a show about a fella and him money laundering for a Mexican drug cartel, no less. Anyway, herself thinks we’d be as thick as two Kerry men if we didn’t give it a lash. So, like, how would I get into the old money laundering?

– Dan Paddy Andy, turn left in Leap and keep going until you come across a fella shouting, “Say hello to my leetle friend, mang”.

I asked a solicitor friend if I would incriminate myself by answering this question. She said it was outrageous to presume she’d be an expert in dodgy finance, just because she’s a solicitor.

She also said to meet her in the carpark of the Angler’s Rest on Tuesday evening, flash your headlights twice and carry a copy of last Friday’s Examiner.

You can draw your own conclusions there.