Ask Audrey has been sorting out the people of Cork for years.
Come here, what’s the story with scoring with old dolls at the Christmas party? Myself and my mate Squirty do be looking forward to it like mad, every year at work. (Squirty do be some kind of legend with the old Hey Baby!) Anyway, we got an email from HR saying there is to be no inappropriate touching or suggestive comments, because of that clown Harvey in Hollywood. So, like, are we supposed to ask an old doll now, before we lob the gob?
– Proud Paul, Togher, Squirty hates rejection.
I’d have thought he’d be used to it by now. Looking back over my one night stands (starting last night with Giorgio, or was it Luigi), I wish that more men had asked permission before making a move. At least that would have given me a chance to say fire away, but is there any chance you could buy a packet of mints.
We’re devastated here in Chez Ken et Monica, after the Paradise Papers leaks this week about the super-rich. The problem is we didn’t get a single mention. And this is after Ken spent €33 million on a submarine, so he could get to Crosshaven without driving alongside your common types. Seriously, what’s the point paying €3 euro in tax, on an income of €4.7 million, if no one is going to talk about it?
– Monica, Sunday’s Well, #JealousofBono
#YoureInAGroupOfOne. I feel your pain. It must be terrible, earning a fortune off the backs of others and not getting the credit for it, where it really counts, in Sunday’s Well Tennis Club. I’m afraid Posh Cork has been completely outclassed by the global super-rich this week. I’m running a support group for Cork snobs who feel inadequate after the latest revelations. We meet in RCYC (where else?) every Tuesday night, to thrash out some hard truths. Next week’s one is called ‘Prince Charles has never heard of Christians. (Or Pres, before you ask).’
Guten Tag. Vot in gott’s name is a dryballs? I am dating one of your Irish girls here in Berlin, she is from Carrigaline. I can understand most of what she says, but sometimes when we are out and I refuse to have a seventh Jager Bomb, she calls me this dryballs. What is the story there, like?
– Erik, Berlin, I have checked my balls, you wouldn’t say they are wet, but neither would you say they are dry.
Rivers of vom just imagining that, Erik. Dryballs is the Cork word for someone who isn’t as much of an alcoholic as yourself. It translates as “If anyone sees me drinking this by myself, they’ll tell my Mam.” (Mam is what you call your mother in Cork, if you live on a road named after someone who died for Ireland.) The next time Caitriona gives you a hard time, say “Vot is all zis complaining, you should be happy just to be out of Carrigaline.” (Make sure to use the ‘Allo ‘Allo accent, ve love that.)
Hello old stock. Uncertain times in Chez Reggie. A video has surfaced of me pole-dancing in front of a group of unimpressed ladies at a leading Cork golf club. (It doesn’t help that I’m wearing a Nazi uniform.) My wife Marjorie has decided that I am suffering from sex-addiction. (Apparently it’s a disease now, rather than a hobby.) Anyway, she is insisting I need help. Do you know any local treatment centre, with a stunner on reception?
– Reggie, Blackrock, is that a new perfume you’re wearing?
No, it’s insect repellent. It clearly isn’t working. I’m sorry to hear you’re suffering from sex addiction, and not something more serious. (I always thought the real sufferers from your sex addiction were every woman you’ve ever met, but what I would I know?) Anyway, I asked my friend the shrink what’s the best place around Cork for a sex addict. She said Kinsale. She’s good crack, my friend the shrink.
Hej! I am a Danish guy, six foot two, eyes of blue, I could be coming after you. That is after I visit Dublin on Wednesday to watch our boys beat your boys in green. I will be wearing red face-paint and a Viking helmet - I will look a bit crazy, but on closer inspection you will see I am totally cool and in control of my emotions. Are you available to show me around if I visit Cork next weekend?
– Lars, Copenhagen, I have been told I am like wood.
You sound like a bit of a plank alright. The only thing I know about Denmark is that ye’re over-fond of the word ‘probably’. I’ll be glued to the matches though. You don’t want to blink in case they cut away to Roy Keane on the sideline, and he’s got his Angry Sex face on. I usually open the window when that appears, so I can hear all the women in Ballinlough saying “What kind of God would waste those looks on a Norry?”
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