Ask Audrey: 'There's no point dumping him — his mother promised to leave us the house in Crookhaven'
Audrey For Been Ages Has Out Cork People Sorting Ask
Hello it’s Rosealeen here in Ballydesmond. I tried three diets last week, same scéal with the lot of them. All grand for a day, then I say “Yerra fuck it” and start hoovering down the leftover bars from the 42 selection boxes I bought half-pissed in SuperValu the day of our Christmas party at work. Well didn’t I become known as Yerra Fuck It around the town, it doesn’t take much to get a new nickname in north Cork.
It was then that Berna told me there is nothing for it but to start a podcast called Yerra Fuck It and see where it goes. We didn’t have any real plan for it, but that never stopped anyone making a podcast. Eventually we settled on a format where Berna reads out letters from disappointed dieters around the town and I say something like “Yerra fuck it, go out and get a bag of chips”.
The next thing I know I get an invitation to appear on saying, I’m the top podcast in Australia, top that says you. Well, didn’t I also get an invitation to appear on this weekend, as long as I refer to the podcast as Yerra Feck It, because they don’t want to upset Veronica in Roscommon, whoever she is. Do you think I should do as I’m told?
So hey dude, I’m the soundest guy in Ballintemple based on the number of northside taxi drivers who would describe me as a friend or close acquaintance. My trust fund is no barrier and it can’t hurt that my main man Bryan with a Y put me on to this website called You Look Like a Norrie, where you can buy incredibly expensive leisure wear that is designed to look like it came from Penneys.
Anyway, I pick up the old man’s Examiner last Monday and there is my best friend Cillian Murphy with a Golden Globe, the old shite. We started out acting together, but I branched off into tech startups that were a touch ahead of their time, or food in horsebox ideas that were too sophisticated for palates on Leeside.
Anyway, there’s talk that Cillian (or Murph as I’m allowed to call him) is a shoo in for the Oscar, and this screams Opportunity!! to someone with my business chops. I was thinking of launching a new foodie horsebox, selling Cillian Murphy-themed sausages to people in tech startups. What do think I should call them?
It’s getting suspicious on our WhatsApp group Douglas Road Stunners who Are Delighted That You like Their New Kitchen. (And why wouldn’t you, considering how much it cost.) I’ve just had my kitchen done, we could only afford top end IKEA because my Ken’s paper bicycle business idea went south the minute it started to rain. It’s still a lovely kitchen, I’m delighted with it, but I can imagine the bitchy comments out of Fifi, Bronagh, and the other stunners when they come over for the great unveiling.
I had a dream last night where Fifi put a giant billboard outside my house saying : ‘You really don’t need to spend a fortune to get a super kitchen’. She did something similar to Orla Mac when Orla bought a Hyundai, nothing is off-limits. I have to invite The Stunners over — it’s actually illegal on the Douglas Road if you fail to boast about home improvement. Poor Ciara forgot last year and they made her move to Grange. I wouldn’t survive for 10 minutes up there Audrey, Grange is Ballyphehane up a hill.
I could murder Ken for his shite business acumen, but there is no point in dumping him now, his mother can’t live forever and she has promised to leave us the house in Crookhaven. So I was thinking of having a Dark Soirée, where I invite the stunners over to see my kitchen but turn the lights down really low so they can’t tell it’s IKEA — if I tell them Dark Soirée is the latest thing in New York, they’ll go for it, they’re gullible that way. What would be the ideal wine to serve for that kind of event?
My daughter is an awful bitch, she’s been trying to get back at me since we refused to fund her Kimchi and Fortune Telling stall in Schull. Her latest wheeze is serial Norrie dating, where she brings home some track-suited monstrosity off a FÁS course in an attempt to give her father a heart attack.
The newest is Gav, she had him here for Christmas Dinner, and long story short, he’s welcome in my designer underwear any day of the week. I’m weak for him and I’m well kept for 58. I’m toast in Monkstown Golf Club if word gets out, but I don’t care. Is this mid-life madness or am I in love?
