STORY.

Wifeys godson, Art O’Connor, got married in the Basilica San Silvestro in Rome on Friday, August 14th 2026.

In anticipation of the wedding Wifey took a figary into her head to get her hair done with a hairdresser in Dublin who specialises in ‘coiffure à la Roma.’

She regretted it the moment she sat down. The lady never stopped talking.

“Oh, I sooo love Rome,” says the hairdresser.

“My husband and I have been there countless times. Let me mark your card for you as I do with all my clients. First off, where are you flying from, and who are you flying with?”

“Shannon,’ says Wifey.

‘Reilly is a nervous traveller at the best of times and he loves the country feel of Shannon and the few pints beforehand to steady his nerves.’

“That’s all fine and well if you want to be sitting with your knees jammed to your forehead on a Ryanair flight and treated like animals. My husband insists on flying Business Class with Aer Lingus out of Dublin. There isn’t even an executive lounge at Shannon! And, by the way, where are you staying?”

“Reilly found some bijou boutique hotel on ChatGPT very close to the city centre. It was surprisingly good value.”

“‘Bijou boutique’ is simply marketing speak for ‘small, shabby and squalid.’ Sounds alarmingly suspicious to me. My husband maintains you should always stay in one of the better-known hotels. And have you any plans to visit St Peter’s and see the Pope?”

“Not really. Reilly says we might mosey up there on the final morning before our flight home. He’s sure to know someone who’ll get us a ticket inside.”

“Ah, come on now, Wifey. Don’t be so naive. Have you any idea of the thousands who book years in advance to get an audience with the Pope? Fortunately, my husband has connections in the Corps Diplomatique and, on our last visit, we were so close to the Holy Father I felt as if he was speaking directly to me.

“I didn’t dare say it to Hubby, but I don’t mind telling you that the experience left me feeling divinely aroused for several hours afterwards.”

Wifey said nothing but wished the hairdresser would keep quiet and just get on with the job. She promised faithfully that she’d brief the lady on her trip on her return.

Wifey was in Dublin yesterday and inadvertently happened to bump into “Barbie” – as Reilly had uncharitably christened her.

“Wifey! I simply must hear it all. Give me the full ‘Tutto Italiano,’ as we say in Rome. Had you much difficulty getting through customs? I’ll bet the flight was jammers with yahoos in Mayo jerseys? And I’d vouch that you had problems with the hotel from the moment you arrived. As for the ‘Divine Experience!’ – the earth moves only for the Divine.’

“You won’t believe it,” says Wifey, “but the immigration officer checking our passports recognised Reilly. He whipped out of his suit pocket one of those booklets that Reilly had written years ago called ‘Passport to Success.’ The officer seemingly reads a section from it every morning. He said he’d be honoured if Reilly would sign it for him.

“Reilly gilded the lily a bit in the inscription and wrote that Shannon was the friendliest airport in the world and that the immigration officer was a ringer for George Clooney. The officer then insisted they pose for a selfie. Imagine any other immigration control in the world doing that!

“It must have worked because as we boarded the aircraft, the captain welcomed us personally and informed us that our seats had been upgraded. We were being allocated the very front seats, where there was oceans of leg room.

‘Reilly always carries copies of that booklet with him and presented the captain with one – once again personally signed and inscribed. It simply read that Ryanair, despite its reputation for thrift and economy, is one of the safest airlines in the world and that the captain was a ringer for Brad Pitt.

‘No sooner was the ‘fasten your seatbelts’ sign switched off after take off than the stewardess was on top of us with two snipes of champagne. The champagne continued flowing until our descent into Rome.

“Reilly was so energised by the hospitality and the conviviality that as the plane was making its final approach to Ciampino Airport he spontaneously broke out into ‘The Red And Green Of Mayo.’

“Everyone on the plane, with the exception of one miserable couple from Kerry, joined in. It was the best flight of our life.

Barbie looked stunned.

“And the hotel?” she asked.

“Well, when we got there, the receptionist told us there was a problem and the manager needed to speak to us. He explained to us that the Tiber had overflowed its banks that morning and our room would be uninhabitable for several days. He apologised profusely and asked if we would accept being upgraded to the penthouse suite.

“Reilly replied with a smile – ‘When in Rome!’

He then presented the manager with another Passport to Success and inscribed it: “To the best bijou boutique hotel in Rome, and to its manager, who is a ringer for Paolo Maldini, the man every Italian man wants to be and every Italian woman wants to be with.”

“We had an uninterrupted 360-degree view of Rome from our circular bed and we weren’t allowed pay for a single Peroni all week.

Barbie was speechless.

“And what about the Vatican?”

“Well, on the final day of our trip, the day we were scheduled to attend the Vatican, we’d had one Negroni too many the night before, and missed the bus. By the time we arrived there we were at the very back of St Peter’s Square and nowhere near as close as you were to the Pontiff.

“Midway through Mass however, these two drop-dead gorgeous Swiss Guards approached us. At first I thought it might have been Reillys Mayo jersey but every second person in St Peter’s Square had a Mayo jersey on. They informed me that the Holy Father would like to speak to me alone in private after mass.”

Barbie’s mouth fell open and gasped. ‘And what did Reilly say?’

‘Reilly winked at me and said for the umpteenth time that week, ‘When in Rome!”

“Following Mass, the Holy Father entered the sacristy and gave me a gentle and understanding smile and asked me to kneel before him.

“He placed his hands gently on my head and ran his manicured fingers tenderly through my hair.

“Bending low, so none of the other Cardinals or Archbishops could hear him, he whispered something into my ear I will never ever forget.”

“What did he say to you, Wifey?” asked Barbie, rapidly approaching another state of divine arousal.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that. I was so mortified, I didn’t even tell Reilly.”

“Oh, go on, Wifey. I insist. My lips are sealed. You know I’ll never utter a single word of this to a living soul.”

“Oh, I know that,” says Wifey confidently.

Wifey leaned closer.

“Child of God,” said the Holy Father, “you have been endowed by the Holy Spirit with the most beautiful natural hair…”

Wifey paused.

“…but who, in the name of Sweet Divine Jesus, cut it for you?”

INSIGHTS

There are two types of people in this world. Those who have been to Rome. And those who have been to Rome and insist on telling you how you should do Rome. God spare us from the second lot.

As we constantly repeat at Smácht, say less and listen more. You learn very little while you’re talking.

And, as Wifey discovered, this is particularly good advice when you’re holding a pair of scissors.

POSTSCRIPT

Best wishes, every blessing and a lifetime of happiness and good health to Art and Amy O’Connor, who were married in the splendid Basilica San Silvestro in Rome last Friday.

As Reilly sat in the pew, just yards from where the head of John the Baptist rests, he couldn’t help reflecting on the irony.

Wifey came to Rome to get her hair noticed.

John the Baptist had altogether more serious issues with his.

PPS: The holidays are over. Smácht returns as normal this week.