Ask Audrey: Blackrock people won’t run for the Áras, they’d resent moving into a smaller house

Audrey's been sorting out Cork people for years...

I’m a successful wellness guru with 20,000 followers on Instagram. In the past people said this is because I went to Scoil Mhuire and my father owns half of Glanmire, but I dealt with this by blocking them on my social media channels. Anyway, I was posing for an Instagram post to promote my new anti-ageing protein pancakes when it occurred to me — I’m not just the ideal person to be the next President of Ireland, I bloody well deserve it. Do you think I’d win?

— Monica, Blackrock Road, I’m better than any of those guys from Dragons’ Den.

Love that show, watching all the delusional blow-hards coming in with over-inflated notions of their true worth. Anyway, enough about the Dragons. (Except if Peter Casey wants to put a name on the ballot paper that will chime with voters, he should run as Peter Who?) I asked my Posh Cousin if someone from the Blackrock Road would be right for the Áras. She said no, they’d probably refuse to move into a smaller house.

C’mere, what’s the story with imagining my old doll doing it with a stranger. I don’t mean imagining me catching her doing it with Roy Keane and then Roy becomes my friend to make up for it and we go for a pint and all my friends think I do be the bollox. What I’m talking about here is her hen party in Galway this weekend, where she says she wants to block me on Facebook for a few days so she can have a mad one, and now I can’t help thinking about her doing it with a beardy bongo player. Am I wrong?

— Dowcha Donie, Blackpool, do your husband have that fantasy too about Roy and you?

As if I’d sleep with a northsider. In fairness, I know your pain. I have some terrible nights when my husband is away on business, tossing and turning in bed, with Marco or is it Pepe, dreading that My Conor will arrive in the front door because some meeting is cancelled. Hope this helps.

Hey. I’ve been seeing this guy from Offaly for six months and I genuinely think he might be marriage material. (Long gravel drive up to his gaff, horses, Range Rovers, parents own an apartment block in Marbella, it’s all very Downton Abbey if you block out their hilarious accents.) Unfortunately he went off the booze for something called Dry September and it turns out he’s as dreary as a Tuesday in Kanturk. Is it possible to have a pre-nup, where he promises to drink a bottle of wine every night, forever?

— Kate, Douglas, please tell me I don’t sound like a spoiled cow.

Can’t, I’m doing something called Truthful September. Soz about that. My friend from college is a solicitor, specialising in putting a 500 grand extension on their house in Farran and pretending they have no money. I said, is there any way to make your future husband drink a bottle of wine every night? She said absolutely. I said how? She said, talk to him non-stop about the wedding. #HurtsHisEars

Ciao. The nights draw in, the evenings grow colder, my mind turns to winter, and finding a slightly larger girlfriend who can keep me warm, like a beautiful coat. The problem is Cork is too small for my love life and every time I break it off with a girlfriend to make room for a new one, I keep bumping into this ex all over town, who often shouts at me when I suggest we go to my apartment for old time’s sake. Can you help?

— Marco, Verona and Ballinlough.

My neighbour, Nerdy Niall, has written an app called Where’s My Ex, it makes your phone vibrate every time an ex is detected within 200 metres. I took it for a test drive, and fair play the phone went bonkers when I bumped into Rugby Rory on the Grand Parade.

I won’t go into the details in a family newspaper, but let’s just say the phone gave me far more pleasure than Rugby Rory ever managed back in college.

Hello old stock. I’m back in the bad books at work after a complete misunderstanding with a 24-year-old stunner from Bilbao. (We’re talking at least a 9.) She’s new, so I brought her out for what was supposed to be one drink, but ended with the two of us singing Despacito to a pub full of bewildered locals on Blarney Street. I was only trying to make the girl feel welcome, but now I have to make a formal apology to her in front of the partners. What should I say?

— Reggie, Blackrock, absolutely nothing untoward happened, unfortunately.

For you — she’s probably changing her name to Lucky. My cousin is in PR, he specialises in making men like you seem like human beings. (No offence.) I told him your story and his face nearly dropped with the despair. I said what’s wrong. He said your guy broke the golden rule. I said what’s that. He said trying to impress a bird by bringing her drinking on the northside. #HeHasAPoint.