Ask Audrey: I’m pretending to be a poet to impress a stunning pseudo-intellectual from Clonakilty

Ask Audrey has been sorting out Cork people for ages like ...

Hello old stock. I’m pretending to be a poet to impress a stunning pseudo-intellectual from Clonakilty, so this week’s issue is in the form of a limerick. “I once knew a bird from Ardmore, We got up to all sorts down by the shore, She phoned me last night, and gave me a fright, I’ve a son and he’s aged 24.” She wants me to meet the lad this Saturday which is a nightmare because I’ve Hoggy pencilled in for a jacuzzi with two very open-minded travel agents from Kenmare. Do you think she’s looking for money?

— Reggie, Blackrock, he has my hair apparently.

So that’s where it went. I’d be the last person to mock someone for scoring in Ardmore. The way the locals go around on their hind feet and almost speak English, it’s easy to forget they are actually from Waterford. As for your question, one bad limerick deserves another. There once was a fella called Reg, In Cork Con he has known as a ledge, He went to Ardmore, Where he did more than score and that’s going to cost him some wedge.

How about ye? I entered our annual raffle Orange Order raffle, where the booby prize was a weekend break anywhere in the Irish Republic. (And they said Unionists don’t have a sense of humour!) I won said booby prize so myself and my good wife just spent a weekend in Cork. I have to say you’re much nicer than Dublin people and we very impressed by the way ye integrate people from north and south of the River Lee, even though your northsiders don’t appear to have any English, so they don’t. Make Cork your capital and we’ll gladly join up. Y’on for it?

— Sammy, Ballymena, we surrender.

You sound like you had a couple of goes at the distillery tour. Your letter was going really well for about ten seconds, a bit like sex with My Conor. And then you said you think that southsiders are at one with the Norries. That’s as daft as a shower of red-faced men marching down the road wearing orange. (It’s just not a great colour for you.)

We’ve decided to buy our dream house in Bishopstown, so I’ve my cute kids doing modelling jobs around the clock to bring in some extra cash. (Nightmare, they’re super-annoying when they’re tired.) The problem is the woman dealing with our mortgage was in my class at school, and Iet’s just say I over-egged what we bring in annually, at our Mount Mercy reunion last year. Do you think she’ll tell everyone?

— Fiona, Wilton, not for much longer

I passed on your story to my Posh Cousin. She said that’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever heard. I said, inflating their salary? She said no, dreaming of owning a house in Bishopstown. I said why? She said, because Bishopstown is just a punishment camp for people who can’t afford the Model Farm Road.

Now listen up Paddy. I am a member of the British establishment, which is to say I am one of eight chaps who were in the same class at Eton. (Hurrah!) I have been instructed to pass a message to your man, Simon Coveney. The messages goes as follows: ‘Now listen up Coveney, when we promised a backstop in the Brexit negotiations, what we were really doing there, as such, was lying through our teeth. This should hardly come as a surprise given we allowed you 800 years to learn the way we operate, but I suppose quick on the uptake has never been a core competency for you Irish.’ Would you be so kind as to pass that on?

— Lord Horseface Von Cousin-Marry, quite a lot of Sussex

Sorry, I’m not allowed to approach a member of the Leeside Merchant Prince Class after a misunderstanding at Cork Week last year. (I misunderstood what happens to my brain after four gins. Hilaire, as long as you’re not standing next to me.)

I’m back on the dating game after discovering that when my Ken said he had something that needed seeing to at work, he meant the new HR manager from Portugal. I put out a find-me-a-man klaxon on the WhatsApp group, Monkstown Moms Who’ve Had A Bit of Work Done. One of them introduced me to her plumber as a stop-gap until I find someone with a degree. He’s amazeballs in the sack, in fairness, but he’s also from a very rough part of Dublin. (We’re talking Outer Skangolia.) Is there any safe way to introduce him to my friends?

— Katie, Monkstown, he’s like Conor McGregor with manners.

Isn’t it great the way they can train them. It’s a minefield, bringing your bit of rough from the lower orders into contact with people who feel vom in the mouth when they pass a Dealz. My friend Monica spent six grand getting her mechanic gentrified, only to bring him into Electric one night without remembering to change his white socks. It’s the small things that will catch you, said I hopefully when I was being chased around Kinsale Yacht Club by a tiny millionaire. #StoryForAnotherDay