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Hey, how ya doin’? Meself and some other Donegal lads are heading up to Dublin for the match tomorrow and we were wondering how we might impress your Cork girls? - Murty, Bundoran, we’re wild good looking, hey.
Who cares what you look like? All we need to hear is the Donegal accent and we’re liable to forget everything the nuns told us about spur-of-the-moment sex with a stranger. (They were against it, unless your man could prove his father was a member of Little Island Golf Club.)
There is something about your beautiful voices that helps us forget that ye are a pack of country music loving bogmen who ruined gaelic football with yeer defensive system. (No offence.)
I was in Dublin a few years back when this fella approached me in a green and gold jersey. I was so excited only he opened his mouth and said “I’m from Navan!” Talk about disappointment. And halitosis.
Hey man. Things aren’t looking good for a totally chilled-out, nice guy like me now that Donald Trump is doing well in the polls over here in the States. I was thinking of like totally moving to county Cork. What do you think? - Eric, Boston, I’ve got dreadlocks.
Oh, you’ll just love Clonakilty. It’s like Skibbereen, but with money. Just to bring you up to date with the political picture here in Ireland.
One of our parliamentarians (TDs) put 115 questions to the Minister for Health in the Dáil this week. (Dáil is the Irish word for ‘we’re on holidays’.)
Worse again, this politician is a country boy from out West, so each and every one of those questions had to be translated into English.
As for Donal Trump, I have only two words for Americans coming here to escape a populist type with hilarious hair. Mick Wallace. And he’s one of the better ones.
My boy, Hugo, had his friend Cian over for a play-date today. The poor little guy told me he lives in a semi-detached house and has never eaten hake. I really wanted to give him a hug, except my new boobs are still a bit sore. Cian’s mom rang there (St. Als, judging by the accent) and invited Hugo over on Monday. I’m afraid he might catch something. What do you think I should do? - Jean, Blackrock, I drive a white Range Rover.
Who doesn’t drive one in Blackrock these days? My posh cousin had the same problem as you.
She sent her Zach to a GAA camp on the northside and he said nothing but daycent when he came back.
I hear there is a guy in Douglas called The Debriefer, where you can send someone to get fixed if they have been over-exposed to Norries.
The service doesn’t work, but it costs five grand, so sending your Hugo there is a clear sign you’re loaded. And sure that’s the main thing.
How’re oo goin on? The good news is the missus signed us up for Netflix last week and I watched 19 hours of telly on the trot. The bad news is I’ve lost the feeling in me left leg. What’s the story there now like? - Mick Jim Mickey, head north outside Drimoleague until your watch starts going backwards.
You have acute Binge Watching.
This is where people watch TV all day because anything is better than the reality of life in their no horse town.
I hear it’s huge in Clonmel. I also hear the only way to get people off the couch is to play Pokemon Go. So there is your choice.
Temporary paralysis in one leg or everyone thinking that you’re bonkers.
There is another option here in town, where people turn up at Cork City matches in Turner’s Cross and pretend they’ve been going there all their lives.
That’s all the rage on Leeside these days.
Ciao. I am in Cork this weekend with my two friends. Nobody honestly believes we will not try and make love to all the beautiful women. Where do you think we should go? - Benni, Milano, my girlfriend doesn’t trust me.
I can’t say I blame her. You are in luck, this a Bank Holiday Weekend holiday in Ireland, where we are allowed an extra day to give ourselves alcohol poisoning. (It’s our version of La Dolce Vita.)
I recommend you try the Regatta in Kinsale. Regatta in this case means ‘Get out in your yachts, guys, town will be full of Norries eating 99s.’
You’ll find the locals down on the pier, having fun with a greasy pole. Don’t get too upset if they refuse to have fun with a greasy Italian. (No offence.)
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