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Trogs, old men and 'normals' a-plenty . . . but I still haven't met my match

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'.

I haven't used condoms for years so I asked the girl which she thought best. "Well they're no good at all if you want to feel alive," said she regarding the 'extra safe'. "Take these," -- the Durex Pleasure Max. Ribbed and dotted. "To stimulate you both." How could I refuse? For it would mean I wouldn't really have to make much effort myself in the stimulation department. It being the case that if I had any chance of 'pulling' it would be at 5am most likely and I'd be too tired to bother moving around much.

There was a story in the papers on Thursday which is unprintable in this paper. This story is regarding what was referred to as a "popular fruit" and me being romantically linked.

These accusations are of course absolutely scurrilous. Funny; but absolutely not true at all, honest. Myself and my nannies read it on the way here and, oh, how we laughed at what is definitely (but consequently unprintable in this family paper) the best 'Sinead O'Connor' headline ever. Ozzy Osbourne and Alice Cooper can move on over outta the way. This little Irish fecker has stolen your crowns.

So we get to our (really lovely) hotel. We enter our rooms, Luke, Jamie, my friend, Anthony, and myself. There are fruit bowls in each of our rooms. Mine had strawberries, apples and grapes.

Later I wondered for a laugh, did the guys get the 'popular fruit' and I didn't. Guess what? That's exactly what happened! My basket just quietly displayed an array of not-that-scandalous items. Their's did.

Which is kind of the symbol of how we're getting on down here. My friend, Anthony, is married. But Jamie and Luke, of course, are single, and desperate to meet gorgeous young Irish ladies.

By nine last night they had been dancing for hours with old ladies. And really loving it. But they aren't 'here for the beer'. So we went to see the match-maker Willie Daly.

We enter a cove in a hotel bar. The walls are warm cream (ooops! Didn't mean that) and believe it or not, strewn with images of bollock-naked ladies. Not as old-fashioned as I'd imagined. Sadly, no pictures of naked men.

They take instant polaroids of the three of us. We are given forms to fill out. Name, address, occupation. For the latter I put "Goddess". At the end of the form were four lines where we were asked to describe what we were looking for in a prospective match. I thought four lines, each two inches long, was very challenging. But I suppose at this stage two inches is all I can hope for.

When we discussed later what each of us had put I again experienced the difference between what way men and women view 'romance'. I saw a T-shirt in New York years ago. It said "Making love, what my girlfriend does when I'm f*****g her". That is so how it is. So, on my four lines of describing the kind of boyfriend I would like I put he has to: be funny; be snuggly; be eccentric; and have stubble. Jamie put: big boobs; nice arse and intelligent.

The polaroids are attached to the forms and I'm pleased to report I didn't look like a total pig. Well, I looked like a pretty enough pig as I had lip-stick and mascara on. All the while there had been a man lurking in the corner. Willie Daly says to me: "This is the man I think you'd like."

Oh God. No. I mean a sweet man but, oh my God. No. Problem? Too normal. I nearly dropped dead on the spot, so I did.

I'm frightened of 'normals'. I will often write about it. It is an obsession with me for you see 'normal' is a very contagious disease. He was wearing a great suit and the nearer the came toward me the more 'normal' I began to feel. I said I was going for a fag with me mates and ran as fast as my legs could carry me back to my hotel.

In the bar Jamie, Anthony, Luke and myself met up again. Some pretty young ladies Jamie and Luke met earlier turned up and, despite there being boyfriends, Jamie swore to us that this one lovely lady was his. I have yet to find out if the prophesy came true. Horribly then, a long line of really trog-like old men looking like they were

nine years pregnant began to form behind Anthony. I was facing them so Anthony couldn't see them. They were winking and grinning at each other and hitching up their trousers as if to say: "We're in here, lads." Oh my God.

Recently, because I am a genius, I realised if I pretend I am on the phone I can get out of 'Sinead O'Connor situations' I'm uncomfortable with so I employed that tactic and wandered out of the bar talking to my phone saying "I'm not really talking to you I'm pretending to talk to you because the cast of Deliverance is in the bar licking their lips at me and I want my mummy." Anyone's mummy.

So, what do I do? There can't be only trogs here. They're all really old. I didn't see one man near my age that looked porkable. I am beginning to feel I should abandon the search altogether and try couple's counselling with my vibrator. You see, I got bored with it. I've lost the one I really like somewhere in the house. I'm terrified the dogs are gonna find it before I do.

I think I will call off the manhunt and instead update my vibrator collection. And perhaps investigate other sex toys. Its very tricky when you're famous you know, to just walk into Miss Fantasia and buy yourself a load of buzzers.

So, I'm behind the times. I need guidance officer, as to where and how I can attain these precious items without it being in The Sun . . . "Sinead buys 9ft drill-do?"

Anyone who can supply me either with actual vibrators and/or toys or with the knowledge of how to attain some please email me at iamwonderful@me.com. I am hoping that I could attain many of such items and review them on my blog.

When I was 16 I wrote a song called Never Get Old, which was on my first album. It was about a boy called Ben Johnson who was the most handsome boy at school and all the girls wanted him. I got to go out with him for about five minutes before he sensibly dumped me. And I wrote the song. Well, guess what? He is going to be here at Lisdoonvarna tonight "roasting a pig" I'm told. Maybe the pig will be me. Will keep everyone posted.

Sunday Independent