Sorting out Cork people for ages...
We’re on holidays here in a very exclusive campsite in the South of France. The good news is we haven’t met a single Cork Norry; the bad news is the family two doors down are from Finglas.
I don’t want to sound like a snob or anything, but northside Dubs are actually the lowest of the low. (They make Cork Norries look like people who’d get in to one of the minor golf clubs, such as Bandon or Kinsale.)
One or two of them have been greeting me with ‘how yiz’ and ‘story, wha’, as if we have something in common.
They’re so embarrassing at this stage, that we’re actually pretending to be British. Do you think we should ask them to tone it down?
My cousin is doing a PhD in Trinity because she wishes she was from England. (It’s an anthropological study of Dublin’s northside called Wall to Wall Scumbags.)
I said, what’s the best way to approach a gang of Northside Dubliners on holidays? She said, in a tank.
So, I’m the leading social media influencer in Cork measured by the number of followers who don’t realise I use a body double for the photos of me standing on a balcony in a pair of short-shorts, staring out to sea #meaningfully.
Anyway, don’t piss yourself laughing, but didn’t the Offaly Tourism Board get in touch yesterday, wanting to know if I’d like to be a brand ambassador for their town or county or whatever Offaly is.
So like, I always try to keep it real, even that time I hinted a new protein drink was a cure for leprosy. But do you think promoting Offaly as a tourist destination will make me a laughing stock around Cork?
I’ve an uncle living in Tullamore. #CrownofThorns.
I said, what do tourists tend to look for in Offaly? He said a solicitor, so they can sue whoever sold them the holiday.
More advice from Audrey...
Hey dude. The old man running two Range Rovers has done nothing to stop me being the most down to earth guy in Ballintemple.
Seriously, two of the biggest Norries in Cork call me brother and not just because I shared some of my spliff with them one night in Rocky Bay. My problem is I todally don’t know any black people.
I’m flirt-messaging this cool hair-braider from Schull at the moment but she’s not happy that my Instagram posts are wall-to-wall whiteys — with sailing tans.
So, like, is it possible to grab some selfies with an ethnically diverse bunch of people without making it todally look like I’m using them?
I’ve a buddy at yoga, Joseph, from Kenya. I said, I’ve a question for you.
He said, is it: ‘Would you be up for doing a selfie with an Irish guy who wants to get off with a hippy?’ (Gets asked four times a day. #Imagine.)
I’ve just moved into a huge house on the Douglas Road, #WellDeserved, and I’m hosting a barbecue for some of my neighbours on Saturday night.
I have been having a recurring nightmare all week, where I put on a fantastic spread but Rosie from two doors down says:
“Don’t tell me you’re getting party-hosting tips from some kind of middle-manager who lives in the wrong end of Carrigaline, as if there is any other end in Carrigaline?” and they all laugh at me, and Carrigaline.
Well, I haven’t dragged myself into the Dress Circle of Cork society just to be publicly humiliated by a former ban garda. (Hi Rosie #LOL.)
What are the complete no-no mistakes when you’re hosting Posh Cork in your manicured quarter acre of a front lawn?
My Posh Cousin has an event management company for the officer class of Cork society it’s called: Just Get Them Langers.
I said, what is a complete no-no at a barbecue on the Douglas Road? She said, playing spin the bottle with a naked priest after drinking a litre of gin. (She had to pull all kinds of strings to keep it out of The Echo.)
More advice from Audrey...
I’m dating this classic Kerry guy at the moment, handsome, charming and sneaky.
He’s butter-wouldn’t-melt in the normal run of events, but totally Kinsale when we get to the bedroom end of things. (Not that we make it to the bedroom that often, because he’s got a thing for doing it on the stairs. #CarpetBurn.)
Anyway, his latest thing is to commentate on our sex in a Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh accent.
It’s all ‘Tadhg is on the 45, he’s on the 21, he’s doing that thing with his tongue, Anne-Marie is moaning, she’s never had it so good, Tadhg is some kind of sex god, I knew his uncle, lovely man, they’re holding a raffle there next Thursday, and Tadhg slots home a beauty!’ Not. Able. How can I tell him to shut up?
It’s a big problem. My Conor is fierce for talking when I’m trying to enjoy myself, saying things like, “I wonder what time Audrey will be home” and “Other guys would be suspicious if their partner had three phones, but not me.”