The Rose of Tralee contest occurs around the end of August every year. The whole place goes a bit mad for a week or so whilst they work out who to give the award for the most irritating not-fat irishwoman to. They emphatically say its "not a beauty contest" and each contestant has to do a 'party piece' ;ike a short dance or sinbg a song (no stipping allowded !) . That said, let's face it, they arn't going to give it to some old s****er with a fat a**e. It's screened on RTE (Irish television) over two nights and is presided over by some old hasbeen of a dinosaur whose been wheeled out of the RTE home for terminally condescending presenters.
The contestants have to have irish roots somewhere, so it usually ends up with a Texan rose (who had great-great-great-great granfather who once drank a pint of Guinness) mangle a version of 'danny boy' whilst dancing a jig. The eventual winner then has to endure some old crooner belting out 'Rose of Tralee' on stage. Excrutiatingly terrible. In the words of Fathed Ted "They've all got lovely bottoms". I beg to differ, but avoid late August anyway.