The Woman Who Hasn’t Had Sex For 39 Years is now The Woman Who Hasn’t Had Sex for 41 Years.
It’s nearly two years since we last reported on her status on this very page in this very paper when sex was as scarce in pandemic Ireland as petrol is in England.
There isn’t much sex in this piece, but we will issue the usual warning like the one they give on the news about flash photography and strobe lighting.
Move on immediately if you’re not able for sex.
There’s plenty to read about here on a Saturday for no more than the price of a mug of cappuccino in a paper cup. I know a woman who says she will have to bring the excellent Irish Independent home in a wheelbarrow. The readers who have forsaken this piece have no good reason to go asking for a refund just because they don’t feel up to reading about the sex, or in this instance, the lack thereof.
Most of you will ask the obvious. Why is it Mrs 39 is still known as the Woman Who Hasn’t Had Sex for 39 Years when the true figure is 41-ish?
Branding is the answer. Mrs 39 is thinking of bringing out her own line of lingerie. The brand name of the lingerie is Sensible. She was going to call the underwear Comfortable, but in the end she went for Sensible.
“I got the Covid, Billy,” says Mrs 39. “I diagnosed myself.”
“Go on,” I say, all ears. Dr Tony will be very interested in this and minister Donnelly will sit up and take notice.
“I knew I had it,” she says, “because my urine turned cerise, the cabbage smelled like beetroot and I got a terrible mind for cocoa during the waning of the full moon.”
At least I think it was cerise she said, but maybe it was serious. Cerise sounds very like serious.
I had to confess I had never heard of these symptoms, smart and all as I am. I wasn’t surprised when she told me of her foray into self-diagnosis – everyone is a doctor now.
There was a time when it took a good many years to qualify as a doctor. You could always spot the doctor- in-waiting in primary school. From kindergarten on, the doctor would be top of the class at mala or Play-Doh.
The doctor-to-be did the homework every night, even during the summer holidays. He or she would be learning bits of nuclear physics in the first year of secondary school. They knew from the off that it’s next to impossible to get into medical school, so the earnest students gave up a good chunk of their youth for the books. Then there was the six years in the university. The family would have to back the students financially.
The qualified doctor might go on to specialise. The doctor would give a few years working abroad, with more exams, internships and fellowships.
Those who embrace conspiracy theories have no more medical training than watching the mother peel off a sticking plaster. They know more than the doctors, though, after only a quick foray on the internet. Mrs 39 had both shots and is all for vaccinations. “I didn’t want to let Ireland down,” she said.
I’m towering above her as I stand on the step of our pub. John B’s is on a slope, and the story of the leaning pub of Listowel is often used as an excuse by those who spill drink.
The Man Who Knows Everything (TMWKE) staggered on his way to the toilet, even though he only had a half a shandy with 90pc lemonade. Now that we have so few seats, TMWKE is costing me a fortune. The half lasts him all day. The best part is the mask has him gagged, and when he rambles on, I say: “I can’t hear you.”
But some of his muffled words do come through. “The Earth revolves east-west and the slope of John B’s is north-south, hence the stumble.” He may well be right. Have you ever tried to walk against a revolving door?
Micheál Martin was in Brussels the other day, and all the other EU leaders were coming up to him and saying: “Fair play, Micheál, doubt ya boy, ye have 90pc-plus vaccination in Ireland – the best in the world.”
The other prime ministers must have asked how such a figure was achieved. I’m sure some of them also asked how the Government is doing so badly in the polls when they came out as world leaders in pandemic management? The answer is, do even a small thing badly and it will be repeated over and over again; do a big thing well and the massive achievement is taken for granted. There hasn’t been a word about us being world leaders since the news broke last week.
I wonder if the Taoiseach told his colleagues the real reason for the 90pc-plus uptake was the fact we wouldn’t be allowed into the pubs without a vaccination cert.
The asking for certs should be a publican’s legal right come October 22, when the probable easing of restrictions could mean the unvaccinated quasi-doctors can mix freely and spread infection. Our pubs are owned by us and we should be legally allowed to control our own safe place.
The Man Who Knows Everything’s wife left him because he knew too much, or so he says. His only safe place was in the turf shed. He has it very bad for Mrs 39.
I just realised there may be some of you who have forgotten the reasons why Mrs 39 gave up on the sex. Just to recap – her late husband ran off with a younger woman. She has had plenty of suitors, but as the woman who kissed the vampire was heard to remark, once bitten, twice shy.
Mrs 39 has rejected TMWKE. The last time he asked her out she said “Thanks, but no thanks”, which seems to me to be even more emphatic than just a plain “No, thanks”. Mrs 39 did say he was interesting and didn’t rule out a platonic relationship with proper social distancing even after October 22.
“Do you think I have a small bit of a chance?” asks TMWKE.
“There’s always hope,” I say without much conviction. “Take it easy. Try to win her over slowly.”
“Slowly, is it?” he says. “The last time I asked her out was when The Bomber Liston scored the three goals against Dublin in 1978. It was a rainy day, if memory serves me correct. Sadat, Begin and Carter met at Camp David for peace talks around then. Here’s my take on the Middle East.”
“I can’t hear you,” I say. And off I go about my business.