Ask Audrey: How can I stop these Munster Rugby matches - they're lowering the house prices?

Didn’t I send him a text and two hours later I was inside in his ‘love dungeon’ (the converted garage) paying for being such a naughty girl by breaking it off with him last year, I won’t be sitting down for a week. 

We’re an item now again, I think he might be the one, he’s a very caring gentleman when he’s not giving me six of the best with my hairbrush. I’m getting funny even writing it. 

That said, I have a problem. We met his brother for a drink the other night, they call him The Runt, the poor lad looks like he could do with a steak. But that hasn’t stopped me from having saucy dreams about him. 

Like, he’s a scrawny accountant with an electric car, that’s three red flags in the Rosealeen from Ballydesmond Book of Total No Nos. 

How can I stop having these filthy dreams about The Runt?

— Rosealeen, Ballydesmond

I couldn’t stop dreaming about Fabio in our local pizzeria. So I slept with him. I’m not sure if that’s any help.

Hello, old stock. Don’t mind changing the name of Páirc Uí Chaoimh — the idea of more Munster rugby matches is causing sleepless nights among us beautifully spoken millionaires on the Blackrock Road. 

There was a time when you wouldn’t mind a rugby match next door, but the sport has ‘broadened its appeal’, which is the polite way of saying that it is followed by plumbers from Clonmel. 

Thank God I put a huge wall around my property, to stop knuckledraggers from Ennis taking photos of my helicopter when they’re waddling down to the Pairc for a hurling match. 

But you know what, at least they know what they’re talking about. 

These Johnny Come Lately Rugby fans, half of them work with their hands and they don’t know anything about what it means to be a rugby fan. They probably never even gave their best friend a wedgie at a funeral. 

I’m more likely to go to Turners Cross to watch a soccer match these days, and that’s dangerously close to Ballyphehane. 

God be with the days when the old-schoolers in the Cork GAA would sooner whistle God Save the Queen than allow a rugby match on their hallowed turf. 

How can I stop these Munster rugby matches, they’re lowering our house prices?

— Bunty, Blackrock Road.

I rang Cork GAA there and said Blackrock Road residents are worried that you’re selling your soul for a few quid. 

She said don’t worry, there will be no more Munster matches in the Páirc for a while. I said why? She said, the Orange Order have it booked for the summer, loadsa-sterling girl.

C’mere, what’s the story with skiing? I’m dating this well posh one now from St Lukes, we met on a dating app called Dog Rough, it pairs you up with snobs who are looking to date-down, as she calls it. 

I don’t mind like, it drives the lads mad when I tell them about hockey or eating canapés in a €3m house in Myrtleville. 

Anyway, this new old doll has booked a skiing holiday with her old school buddies (a boarding school in Kilkenny, so posh it doesn’t even appear on Google Maps), and I’m going along. 

The problem is I’m not sure I’m cut out for the slopes, I have all the balance of a Southsider after six pints, I might as well book my spot in A&E or whatever they call it in Switzerland. 

She said no bother, I can just go straight to apres ski, which is the posh way of saying going on the piss all day. 

Happy days until Budgie mentioned the price of gargle in Switzerland, I looked it up there, you’d want to rob a bank, a Swiss one. 

I never thought I’d write the words, but I think my only option here is to go non-alcoholic for the week. (Holiday breakfast for me is usually two San Miguels and a poached egg.) 

The problem is I don’t know what to drink – fizzy water gives me erectile dysfunction. 

So like, do they serve Razza in Switzerland?

— Dowcha Donie, Blackpool

I rang Switzerland there and said, do ye have Razza? She said, no, we don’t have Tanora either, please stop ringing from Cork.

Do you know anyone in the Post Office? 

Sorry now but I didn’t spend €4m on a house on the Model Farm Road, just to have a postman FROM TOGHER stroll up my drive every day as if he owns the place. 

He called me ‘girl’ yesterday, as if I was a typist. 

Can I get a more appropriate postman, please?

— Fionnuala, Model Farm Road

Our postman has a very posh accent. I said to him, would you ever think of changing routes to the Model Farm Road? 

He said no, I’d be worried that the wind would change and I’d get a quick whiff of Bishopstown. I roared laughing. 

My Conor must have heard me because he rushed in and caught us in bed.