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About Cork

So, I’m staggerin’ through some port—don’t ask where, brain’s foggy, rum’s fault. Streets smell like fish an’ regret. There’s this gal, right? Red lips, skirt shorter than me attention span. I’m thinkin’, *Jack, you’ve seen worse deals.* But hold up—reminds me o’ that line, “Can you live without knowing?” Aye, makes me wonder—does she choose this? World’s a cruel bugger sometimes.

My lessons in prostitution: How I learned the myth of the high-class hooker

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But then, I step outside, and it starts pouring. Like, outta nowhere! I’m soaked in seconds. I’m standing there, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Terenure’s weather is wild, man. One minute it’s sunny, the next it’s a monsoon. I duck into a café on Templeogue Road to wait it out.

Death Notice of Vincent O'Neill (Terenure, Dublin)