Yes. In fairness, a lot of people have been acting out of character this week. I was actually polite to a man from Cahersiveen. (I said, would you please have a bath?) I’ll have you know that a lot of southsiders use tanning machines. In fact, there is a special setting for sun-beds in Douglas and Blackrock called ‘Just Back from Skiing.’ So tell your old doll that she is just being paranoid. And as we all know, Dowcha Donie, paranoia will destroy ya.
Hiding. You are clearly someone with no taste or standards. Seriously, what were you doing in Youghal? The list of things I’d rather do than spend a night in Youghal includes meet up with Vogue Williams and clean a public toilet in Dunmanway. That’s two things. Although it’s probably given Vogue an idea for her next TV show, Talking Down to Bogmen. Hands off Vogue, I thought of it first.
Don’t let me stop you. I’d think twice about making the move though. My snobby aunt moved to Monaco from Kinsale last year and found it an awful culture shock; none of the women speak through their noses and they couldn’t care less that her son has his own dental practice in Ballintemple. (Imagine!) The only attention she got was from a 93-year-old billionaire, who asked her back to his yacht for an afternoon of bridge and maybe more. She said I’ve no interest in bridge. He said I just love people from Kinsale.
You wouldn’t recognise the place. The only thing that hasn’t changed is your underpants. (You’re allowed to own more than one pair, you know.) I asked my Posh Cousin where’s a good place to eat around Turner’s Cross. She said in your car. (The truth hurts.) I said do you know anything about the ghost? She said it’s definitely not someone from Douglas or Blackrock? I said why. She said because they wouldn’t be seen dead around Deerpark.
A proper headwreck if you don’t know what you’re looking for. My neighbour tells me Posh Cork is devastated about the rise of Norry Ball. (That’s what they call it.) Apparently all the Moms are talking about it at Munster rugby matches, when they’re not boast-complaining about the cost of this year’s Helly Hansen or having filthy daydreams about Simon Zebo. I said could they not get by with a fantasy about Roy Keane. She said yes, until he opens his mouth and sounds like a bus driver on the 208. Crikey.