A woman is out shopping when she gets a call to say there’s been a terrible accident and her husband’s been taken to hospital badly injured. Making her way to the car she notices a sign over the entrance to the new mall: Today only - All stores, all items, just €5. I’ll just have a quick peek, she thinks. Five minutes won’t make a difference.

In the first shop she sees the most wonderful pair of Manolo Blahniks. And only €5. Too good an opportunity to miss.

Just down the way she picks up a party dress by Rebecca Taylor. Kittenish and feminine. Irresistible at €5.

A pair of jeans, numerous tops, belts, more shoes, and two hours later sipping a coffee admiring her purchases she remembers the phone call. She races to the hospital and is met at the door by a stern looking doctor - a woman of her own age but with the air of authority of one much older.

Well, well, well. I hope you are ashamed of yourself. You swanning around the shops and your poor husband fighting for his life on the operating table. Now, missy, let me tell you, you’re shopping days are over. Your husband was so badly injured that he will need round the clock care for the rest of his life. He will have to be fed and washed and changed like a baby. And you will be the one doing it. There won’t be time for shopping. Shame on you. Shame on you.

The woman breaks down crying uncontrollably with guilt and remorse. With thoughts of how her husband has suffered. Of how she will cope.

Ha, says the doctor. I’m only messing. He’s dead. Show me what you bought.

When the great Christy Ring retired from the game of hurling he was asked by Jack Lynch if he’d like to take up golf to pass the time.

- Ah shur where would I be going playing golf, Jack? Shur I know nothing of the game.

- Ah ’tis easy, Christy. If a man can hit a sliotar he can hit a golf ball. I’ll show you the ropes and you’ll be flying in jig time.

So one sunny morning the pair ended up on a tee box overlooking the first hole, 400m away down in the valley.

- Right. What do I do now, Jack?

- Well, you see that bit of grass that’s cut as if like sheep had been at it? With the flag in the middle of it? Off down there in the distance? That’s called the green. The idea is to get the ball onto it in a few goes as you can.

Christy’s ball soared through the air and landed motionless smack in the middle of the green, a mere cat’s whisker from the pin. Not one to be put off, Jack Lynch, played four shots and his ball too ended up on the green.

- Your turn, Christy.

- So what do I do now, Jack?

- Well all you have to do now is hit it into that little hole. That’s the whole idea of the game.

- Well why in the name of sweet Jayzez didn’t you tell me that back up there?

* This yarn is dedicated to all those who, like me, hate the game of golf but see magic and wonder in the skilful game of hurling especially when played by the greats like Christy Ring.

Micilín, the farmer, is walking his land in Galway when he spies a hill walker scooping water from a pool in the palm of his hand and drinking it.

Stad! Stad anois! Tá an t-uisce sin nimhiúil. Saghas baictéir atá ann, warned Micilín.

I’m sorry. I’m English. I don’t understand. Can you speak English?

I said, use both hands. It’s much quicker.

A French prostitute wishing to ply her trade in a Gaeltacht area is informed by the local pimp that due to an oversupply of Latvian hookers she will be restricted to working after 6:30.

She came to be known locally as Leath uair tar éis a sé.

[US readers. Just trust me. This is fekin hilarious!]

I hear the following yesterday. It was on the Ray D’Arcy Show so it must be true. In fact, it’s so crazy it couldn’t but be true.

Following a delay of six hours passengers were eventually allowed board a ÉireFlot (aka. Ryanair) from Germany to Ireland. The joy of being finally en route home for Christmas was to be short lived. Somehow, one passenger too many had been let board.

Despite pleas from the cabin crew this individual was not coming forward. Another delay as they cross checked the passenger list against the boarding cards and found the stowaway’s name.

Once again the cabin crew paced up and down the aisle. “Herr Ogormann, bitte. Mr. Ogormann, please”. 15 minutes later and still no-one owned up. Just as they were about to check all passports a shout came from the back of the plane:

“It’s O’Gorman yez eejits. O-fekin-Gorman”.