Caroline Morahan appreciates me, without the trowel

"Oh I give up, will ya just marry me to hell Terence you big oul' sexy hunk o'love."

Sigh, I would that it were without her towel, having just stepped out of the shower or something, but listen, you can't have it all. All in good time and stuff.

Seriously though, is anyone truly surprised at this morning's dramatic turn of events that saw terencemcdanger.com catapulted right to the heart of both the national media and Ms. Morahan herself? That, as surely you all knew it would, the delectably smiley, lovely and voluptuous curvaceous one would be exposed to my ardent love poetry and swoon, buckle at the knees and collapse helplessly while imploring me to marry her?

Oh yes. My little seed of a few weeks ago has borne sweet fruit. I have played this one like a dream.

So, I've got her hopes up now, I suppose it's time to take the plunge and throw the diamonds on her.
Email me any time, pet, and we can talk turkey. And ham. Or beef or salmon. Whatever you want on the big day. But before then we can just concentrate on being all kooky kerazy in love like I said we would be, dressing up in sumo fatsuits and throwing painted piglets at each other in the back garden and stuff.

Anyway, I've gone this far without actually explaining because no doubt all of you were listening to the Ian Dempsey Breakfast Show on Today FM this morning, where my soon-to-bethrothed was being interviewed. From second hand reports as yet unconfirmed (I only get up around 11, other days I sleep late), I've gleaned that Dempsey, long married and babbied up to the eyeballs and therefore hoplessly out of touch in the witty-patter-with-sexbombs stakes, was forced to crack open the McDanger on his show in an effort to keep the flagging conversation going. All presenters are taught this at media school - if it's going to raggedy hell out there on the air with an uber-babe and nobody else can help, open up the McDanger and sit back and watch the fireworks baby.

Anyhoo, needless to say, a few well chosen witty pearls of homage from my recent post, read out by Dempsey, struck just the right note and brought a radiant smile to the cherubic face of the lovely lovely gorgeous fantastic Morahan, rescuing the DJ's bacon and almost keeping the show on the road.

I say almost because according to reports, shock, awe and lovestruck Morahan literally wasn't worth tuppence after being spellbound by the sheer majesty of my words and obvious depth of feeling for her. She basically ignored every question thereafter in her blissful distraction and could clearly be heard tapping my URL into a nearby laptop, hankering as she was for more, more, MORE OF YOUR WIZARD WORDS OF LOVE AND DAMN YOU FOR MAKING ME YEARN THUS YOU ARTFUL FORGER IN THE SMITHY OF MY DREAMS I WANT YOU I WANT YOU OH FUCK IT LET'S GET HITCHED TERENCE YOU LOVELY BIG SOPPY OLD BASTARD YOU, I CAN DO FRIDAY LUNCHTIME.

As she was doubtless thinking at the time.

As the ears of a stunned radio nation hung agape, and it takes something special to make ears do that, all that could be heard on-air was herself sobbing plaintively into a bewildering succession of hankies. I'll admit, unshakable as my ardour for her is, the music of her honking big emotional boogers into a tissue down a microphone doesn't precisely capture my beloved at her most alluring. Then again, she has many years of "Christ, is that a cruiseship docking?" farts to look forward to from me and fair exchange is no robbery as they say, ho hum.

A cautionary note here though folks, don't try any of this at home. No ladies, the McDanger Magic is not to be unleashed lightly, least of all, heavens above, in a live broadcast situation where it remains the final and lastest of last resorts. It's an even bigger last resort than Bundoran for the holidays.
Like, if Morry (I call her Morry now) wasn't such a paragon of beauty and bastion of lovliness and self-control, it could well have turned Christina Aguilera video in there. Some women just can't take my honey'd verses and lose the run of themselves entirely, disrobing on the spot and spilling scented oils over their naked bodies and going crazy Morris dancing in the nip, like scenes out of the Wicker Man starring Edward Woodward. It's been known to happen. There was a Fleadh Ceol down in Clare one year and the bishop had to come and break it up with a blackthorn stick and tell all the girls to put their clothes back on and go home to their husbands and cook them their tea. (But, fret ye not fair damsels of Ireland, for I would never use my gift for evil).

Now lest anyone should doubt that this actually happened, I will endeavour this week to secure a didgickle recording of the magical McDanger-made moments that melted Morahan mive on mational madio. I will post it here for all to hear here, should Dempsey cough up a copy.

If Iano won't come up with the goods, what the hell, sure you can just all come to the wedding instead.

Ah Caroline, my sweetest rose, all I can do is smile and shake my head at you, you little giggly rascal. It took a while for you to succumb and fall head over heels for me but now that you have, I suppose I'd better make an honest woman of you.

Drop me an email there and then you can call over to my place so I can tickle you for a few hours and get the ball rolling on this crazy adventure.

Just blow your nose and tidy yourself up a bit first, k?

Mwah!