It’s getting pass-remarkable on our WhatsApp Group, Douglas Road Stunners Who Got a New White Range Rover for Back to School.
Lily_ThisTanAintFakeBitches has this new app on her three grand iPhone called PovertySpotter, where you take a photo of all the kids going into school and the app can tell you if they got their Helly Hansen jacket in Matthews or the sale in TK Maxx. Finally something useful from technology!
Anyway, her phone went wild this morning when it detected my best friend, Kiera_WaitTil_ItellYou. Well her daughter’s jacket was a Holly Hanson, instead of Helly Hansen, she’s wearing a knock-off!! Soz, now, but that’s a bit Norry, and we can’t have one rule for the oiks and another for the officer class in Irish society.
I need to ditch Kiera, or Posh Cork insiders will snub me as well. How can I make it clear that she’s not my best friend forever, anymore?
C’mere, what’s the story with finding a swingers club that isn’t full of Norries? The old doll and myself watched this thing on Channel 4 last night, called Swingers, it was about a sex club in England where a pack of gombs got together and pretended to be interested in having a conversation before getting down to business.
Anyway, herself nearly shocked the glass of Albarino out of my hands when she said she wouldn’t mind giving it a try. We’ve been going out for six years like, why wait until now to tell me that I can have a bit of strange, do you know what I mean???
Anyway, she’s given me the job of finding a swingers club outside of Cork, because her friend went to one in Hollyhill and ended up looking at her cousin’s doo-dah. So, is there any part of Ireland I should avoid, for the old bit of swinging?
Hello old stock, myself and Hoggy were having a drink in our members-only pub, Old Stocks, the other night, when Bunty Harrington burst in the door and said 'hop in the car lads, it’s time to get out of here. I have my forty footer ready in Crosshaven, we sail for England tonight'. (He loves a bit of drama, Bunty.)
I said, why would we want to live in Boris land, it’s run by a pack of bumbling toffs. He said precisely, the officer class look after their own over there, unlike here in the Soviet Union of Ireland, where you can toppled for playing a game of golf. Long story short, the three of us are now living in a small fishing village in Cornwall, it would remind you of Glandore, but with less English accents.
Could you ring my wife Marjorie there and tell her the news, without giving away where I am, in case she comes looking for me?
Hey, it’s Mary Lou here, sure glad that Big Phil has hogged all the headlines, so that law-abiding people like Jerry-Bob and myself can continue quarantining our way around West Cork on our honeymoon without one of your freckly locals shouting, 'Get back to America ye filthy Yanks'.
Here’s my question for ya – despite the fact that y’all are locked up in Ireland and can’t visit the sun, and the weather here is what I’d expect from the good Lord on judgment day, y’all go around with a goofy smile on your little old faces.
If this happened in America, we’d sue the weather guy for wrecking our day. How come y’all are so happy all the time, and don’t tell me it’s alcohol because buying a pint is harder than getting a straight answer out of Big Phil?
I just spent a week touring around West Cork. I was hoping to order a toasted special for my lunch, because I like food that comes with coleslaw and seven Hunky Dorys, but it was all smashed avocado on sourdough, which is as about as inviting as a German comedy club.
What happened to your toasted special?