It’s bags packed on our WhatsApp group, Douglas Road Stunners Who Wouldn’t Be Seen Dead in the Queue for Lanzarote. Fifi_WhitePrius knew about the new Ryanair routes from Cork Airport before everyone else this week because she’s had affairs with EVERYONE, you didn’t hear that from me now.
Anyway, she was straight on to the group with the list of places we could go to show off our Gucci Globetrotter Cabin baggage, you can’t afford it Audrey because you only live in Ballinlough. When Orla_VolvoXC90 saw the list she was like, soz bee-atches but most of those new Ryanair routes are for people who live in an estate in Midleton, get in the queue for one of those and you’re basically admitting that you haven’t changed your kitchen in two years.
Anyway, we agreed that Palma de Mallorca is the only flight suitable for people with our amazing skin tone – how can we let met people know that we’re not heading for Santa Ponsa or Magaluf? (As if).
Now listen up Paddy. Having been brutally forced out of the European Union by your man Coveney, it would appear we have run out of poor people and there is no one left to deliver fuel for my planet-shagger of a Rolls Royce.
I’ve just come from a meeting of the British Establishment where we filled up our cars in a private service station out the back and then shared it all on Instagram, because what’s the point in trampling all over the lower orders if they don’t even bloody know about it. Anyway, at the end of the meeting, it was agreed that we need Invasion of The Paddys 2.
There wasn’t a dry eye in our frankly creepy-looking Masonic meeting room as Boris ‘Shagger’ Johnson recalled how an army of Paddy immigrants built Britain in the 20th century, even though we didn’t exactly let you up on the sofa, if you get my drift. We were wondering, do you have any poor people over there that you could send over to deliver oil and the like, because I desperately need to visit my brother in Scotland?
Hello, it’s Rosealeen here in Ballydesmond. Myself and Berna were halfway down a bottle of gin the other night when didn’t she turn to me and say, Rosealeen, I have it, we’ll start our own podcast. Now, Berna is famous for her half-crazed ideas when she’s bending her elbow, the less said about our attempts to put on a ballet in Scartalgin, the better. (God almighty though, the Kerry crowd would clap along to anything.)
Anyway, she is more on the ball with this latest idea, it’s a podcast about the trials and tribulations of getting the ride in rural Ireland, we call it All His Own Teeth. We put up the first episode last night, where we talked about the fact that Cork men move their tongues in a clockwise fashion during a snog, while the Kerry lads would be the anti-clockwise, the contrary gobshites. This is based on our own experiences, which is fairly vast in fairness. Do you know why Cork and Kerry lads snog in different directions?
How’s it going horse? I’m a Dundalk man living in Cork for the past while and no, I don’t know The Corrs and I don’t have strong views either way on the pint of Harp, so I don’t, before yiz ask. I live with my girlfriend in Glanmire, and working from home during the pandemic led to no end of riding, you could go at it any time of the day as long as you made sure the camera was switched off on your laptop, in case people thought you were from Kinsale.
Now we’re back in the office and it’s slim pickings on the bedroom front, I’d be too tired for anything except Netflix. Do you know if there is another pandemic on the way, I’d be mad looking forward to it, so I would?