Ask Audrey: Invitations to the royal wedding are as a rare as toothbrush in Kilmallock

She’s been sorting out Cork people for ages, so why not Ask Audrey?

How’re oo’ goin’ on. Herself is after getting elected treasurer of the pitch and putt club, which came as a surprise to many people, considering the balls she made of running the credit union. Anyway, she’s looking for prizes for the Christmas raffle. Never a woman to lack either ambition or delegation, she has asked me to find two tickets to the wedding of Prince Harry and what’s her name. Where would I even start?

— Dan Paddy Andy, keep going beyond Ballydehob until you see a man who clearly cuts his own hair

Bad news — invitations to the royal wedding are as rare as a toothbrush in Kilmallock. It gets worse. My sources tell me they there are no tickets allocated for west Cork people, not even ones who use ridiculous posh accents to hide their origins. That’s got to come as a blow to Graham Norton. (And half the population of Kinsale.)

C’mere, what’s the story with selling a budgie. I bought one last week to shout out the letterbox at the politicians, when it looked odds on there was going to be an elections. He comes complete with two phrases: “Go away out of that, ye shower of langers” and “stop promising a motorway to Limerick as if that do be a good thing”. Do you know anyone who would like to buy him?

— Dowcha Donie, Blackpool, why didn’t I just buy a cranky old dog?

Because then there would have been two of ye in the one house. I hear there’s huge relief in Sunday’s Well that the election was averted. The worry was Micheál Martin would become Taoiseach and they’d have to take notice of someone from Turners Cross (imagine). In other news, I have fierce trouble every year with carol singers from Blackrock, peering into my hall to see if I have anything from Home Store + More. So, I’ll take the budgie off your hands, if you train him to say: “Clear off ye God-bothering, baldy nob-ends. No offence.”

Humiliating times in Chez Monica. My neighbour Majella called over yesterday, asking if I could let the delivery men in with her €3,500 Christmas tree, because she’s going on a surprise ski week in Klosters. (This double-boast is known locally as The Douglas Road ‘One-Two’.) It’s all lit up out in her back garden now, whispering “Your whole life is a failure, Monica”, over the wall. Do you have any idea how I might put a stop to her gallop?

— Monica, Douglas Road, she’s so false it’s hilarious

Well at least she has something in common with your boobs. I referred your question to my Posh Cousin, who specialises in character assassination (very busy this time of year). She said it’s important to remember the real meaning of Christmas. I said you mean forgiveness and understanding. She said no, hosting a neighbours-only charity event for Deserving Norries and spreading a rumour that Majella is originally from Blackpool. I said what if it’s not true. She said her name is Majella, of course it’s true.

Hello old stock. Our office party is next week, so as you can well imagine, I’ll be front and centre with the mistletoe, saying: “Pucker up for Reggie”. I got reported for doing this last year, but my nephew, the HR director, found I had done nothing wrong. Do you think I’ll be alright doing it this year?

— Reggie, Blackrock, why can’t people relax and have a bit of fun

Because you haven’t gone home yet. I’m hard pushed to imagine anything worse than you lobbing the gob. Except for maybe giving up drink or moving to Killarney. (Never try the two of those at the same time.) I checked with my Right-On Niece Doing Gender Studies, as to whether a man is allowed to walk around with Mistletoe any more. She said what kind of man? I said an overweight balding one with a limp in both legs. (No offence.) She said no, it’s not OK. I said would it make a difference if he was the bulb off Ryan Gosling? She said yes, but don’t tell the gang in Gender Studies.

Hey dude, I’m a billionaire, deal with it. Like, so, this guy in Korea, with his missiles, World War Three baby, I’m out of San Francisco, looking for somewhere safe. I got one of my best guys to research safe places in the case of a nuclear holocaust. (This guy won’t be coming with me.) I’m currently trying to decide between Cork and Swansea, in some place called Wales. So, my question. What gives? — Miike with two Is, San Francisco, are you single?

Yes, but don’t tell my husband. I went to Swansea once by mistake. The downside is some of the locals speak Welsh, which sounds a bit like me after 14 vodka tonics. The upside is even if the town gets flattened by a thermonuclear device, and the locals end up walking around with their skin hanging off, it would still be an improvement.