Trogs, old men and 'normals' a-plenty . . . but I still haven't met my match
Lisdoonvarna, so far, has not been the roaring success hoped for, writes Sinead O'Connor
When I mentioned 'de-trogging' last week in reference to my beauty preparations for appearing on the Late Late Show I was unfortunately remiss in that I did not explain what a 'trog' actually is. A 'troglodyte' is a monstrous gorilla-like creature so large, hairy, foul-smelling, pus-covered and generally revolting that he or she would make the ugliest Yeti in history look like Angelina Jolie. I am a trog. That is how I recognise trogs when I see them.
I am now sitting in my hotel room in Lisdoonvarna. Arrived here yesterday around 4pm. On the way I thought I better buy condoms for my two male nannies (it's the mother in me) and myself (in the extremely unlikely event) so I ran into a service station somewhere near Clare. Had quite the lengthy discussion with the young lady behind the counter as to which were best to go for. I could sense those in the queue behind me were feeling a tad shocked as the conversation between myself and the young lady was quite loud because she was easily 7ft away from me. And neither she nor I were embarrassed.
There was the usual half-foot long line of options ranging from 'this won't work at all' to 'you may as well be locked in Gaddafi's deepest bunker and yer lover passed on to heaven 30 years ago for all you'll feel'.