We’re keeping Mrs 39 on the straight and narrow – but what if her ‘dead’ husband returns?

IT’S been a while now since we brought you an update on the activities of The Woman Who Hasn’t Had Sex for 39 Years. Her affairs, or rather her lack of affairs, have engrossed the nation, and men in particular. Last time we told you her dead husband may have been seen shopping in New York.

There could be serious social welfare consequences. Mrs 39 may be forced to pay back 27 years of the widow’s pension. More about the dead man walking later.

I am aware, and have been made aware, newspapers are no place for stories about sex. I was told if I keep on writing about Mrs 39, the Irish Independent will end up on the high-up shelves where ‘Playboy’ was kept. “Only basketball players will read the paper,” warned our circulation department. To my detractors I would say: how can you accuse me of writing about sex when the woman I am writing about, namely Mrs 39, hasn’t had sex for 39 years, rising 40.

So keep on reading if you are one of the moral minority. There’s no fear of your being offended in any way. You might even get to find out about the newest news from the story of a latter-day Lazarus, who was Mrs 39’s late husband. Personally I think he’s dead, but so too did Doubting Thomas.

The reason I know for a fact Mrs 39 hasn’t had the bit of sex since our last update is she would have told me so. Mrs 39 knows I’m thinking of writing a book about her life and times and she has been made aware (by me) if she did have the bit of sex my novel would be dead in the water.

Mrs 39 can do as she wishes. Her sex life is her own. But I did suggest, subtly, that if she had the bit of sex, I would have to hand back the advance I was given by the publishers, Ballpoint Press. The problem is that I have already spent the money.

I have to admit I did put a good few men off her in my role as gatekeeper. There isn’t a week goes by that some lad doesn’t present himself in John B’s asking for an introduction.

The Monaghan chicken farmer asked me Mrs 39’s age.

I always honour Mrs 39’s two major anniversaries by giving her a card with a Lotto ticket inside. Mrs 39 has no interest in winning a large amount of money as she is afraid it might change her.

All she wants to do is to spin the wheel and I will tell you why later on. Her birthday is scheduled for April 30, which is the same date as last year when I was sent 57 bottles of perfume. Lads, please do not send any Chanel, Lolita Lempicka, or Issey Miyake this year.

Mrs 39 has 19 years’ supply stockpiled and has taken to pouring perfume down the bowl as toilet freshener. Every time she flushes, her house smells like the entrance to Brown Thomas on Valentine’s Day.

I told the suitor from Monaghan Mrs 39 was no spring chicken. One of my great gifts as a barman is that I talk to people in their own language.

The chicken farmer told me he himself wasn’t much gone the 60. He was well up for the date. “I didn’t come all this way for nothing. We will make the feathers fly,” he said.

The chicken farmer volunteered “to put Mrs 39 out of her misery”.

I was annoyed. I admit that much. Things are so tough in the pub game right now. Us publicans have to put up with conversations we would never have listened to in the good times. As he was only drinking tea, I spoke my mind.

“Is it how you think,” I said, “that women who have no interest in the other thing are automatically miserable?”

The chicken farmer was taken aback. To be fair to the man, he thought he was doing a good deed. “It was a Christian thing to do.”

It’s not that Mrs 39 hates all men just because her late husband went offside.

Mrs 39 is nearly gone broke from buying Lotto tickets.

She is mad about ‘Winning Streak’ presenter Marty Whelan, “but only as a friend”.

Marty never met Mrs 39 and will only become aware of this platonic love when he reads this column.

Marty cracked one of his famous jokes last Thursday on Lyric. It went: “What did the traffic light say to the approaching car?” The answer: “Look away, I’m changing.”

Mrs 39 hasn’t stopped laughing since.

The poor woman needed cheering up. There have been several alleged sightings of her dead husband in New York. He was said to have been seen mixing concrete on the 54th floor of a Manhattan high-rise. Mrs 39 was sure this wasn’t true, as Mr 39 was afraid of heights.

Then, she added in, with a hint of bitterness: “He never worked a day in his life.” When Mrs 39 was happily married, during the first three days of the honeymoon, she described Mr 39’s long nose as Roman. After he ran off with the younger woman, Mrs 39 referred to the nose as “a snout”.

I asked the woman who spotted Mr 39 in Macy’s to retract. Just to put Mrs 39 at ease. She agreed.

“Are you sure it was him?” I asked. “I’m fairly certain. I noticed the nose,” she replied.

But it was the walk, she went on. “He had a very distinctive but barely noticeable limp.”

I asked Mrs 39 if her ex had a nice walk. She sighed.

“Oh yes, Billy, he had a very sexy walk. It was as if he was a cowboy after getting off a horse and he had a lovely bottom for Wranglers.

“He had one leg shorter than the other but that made him even more desirable.”

And there she was looking off into the yonder of long ago, as if the dead man with the John Wayne gait was walking up William Street to greet her.

I’m worried now. What if he’s still alive? We will have to start a GoFundMe page to pay back the pension.

And if Mr 39 ever comes back to Ireland, will Mrs 39 fall for him all over again?

We publicans have to put up with talk we’d never have listened to in the good times. As he was only drinking tea, I spoke my mind