Last weekend I set myself a very specific target. I decided to pursue that oh-so intriguing of creatures, the country girl. You see, I find our rural sisters both interesting and challenging given their rather rigid predispositions.
Right from the off I was at a serious disadvantage; as dedicated as I was to the cause I just couldn’t force myself to betray my label laden wardrobe to dress like a roaster from the sticks. Nothing says I’m just in from the bogs like a check shirt and a brown belt with an obscene buckle, holding up your Wranglers. Wearing my Dior shirt out was like trying to pull Danielle Lloyd without playing in the Premiership.
Country girls may not be the easiest to approach as they already look coupled up, however, fear not, the guy hanging out of them is generally a brother or cousin so don’t abandon all hope too early. To meet one of these ladies you should frequent the likes of Taffes or Tig Coli or later in the evening upstairs in the Front Door or Central Park- affectionately known on busy nights as The Cattle mart (it makes them feel at home).
When chatting to one of these tea makers, you need to drop a few key points into the conversation to smooth your passage to success. Let them know you play GAA (you could have played county but your too fond of your social life) To show your serious about this courtship and that you’re not one of these townies that just use women tell her that you intend to bring her out for dinner. Suggest somewhere that does good steak and spuds because you don’t eat any of that fancy muck.
If you can manage to convince the Dj to ignore his playlist, and his standards, get him to play something like The Joyce Country Ceili Band, and fire her around the dance floor like a rag doll. Any man that can jive will not only melt her heart but also that of her mother and every single relative at family functions.
The preferred profession for a "Hoover jockeys" suitor is a tradesman. With so many lads having headed off to greener grass there is a perceived lack of good catches out there. These women like to know a man is good with his hands, but unfortunately here my moisturised paws let me down somewhat. Thankfully though my knowledge of the soaps and trashy reality TV shows more than make up for this, thank you very much Heat.
Without going into detail my mission was quiet successful, after a romantic supper in Supermacs we adjourned to my bachelor pad, the main attraction being a fully stocked drinks cabinet. In preparation for this eventuality I had purchased some cans of Bulmers, or a tin of apples as she preferred. As she opened my mini fridge her heart skipped a beat in much the same way Sex in the City’s Carrie would if she had just acquired the newest must have shoes (SATC- awful tripe but great ammo).
On that note as we lay in bed the next morning with the faint aroma of Clonmel’s finest wafting in the air, I couldn’t help but wonder....how to get rid of her in morning.
Rembember folks, dont hate the Galway Player hate the Galway Game......
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