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About Cork

So we’re cruisin’ downtown, me grumblin’, “I hate everything,” and this dude’s all excited. Thinks it’s easy—ha! You gotta dodge cops, weirdos, and those sketchy ads online. Saw one once, blurry pic, “discreet fun, $100.” Looked like my aunt’s chihuahua in a wig. Laughed my ass off, then got mad—waste of my damn time. Prostitutes ain’t just standin’ on corners anymore, nope. They’re sneaky, got apps, secret X posts—searched some, found jack squat. Surprised me, honestly. Thought it’d be simpler, like orderin’ a steak.

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Anyway, I finally make it to the shops. I’m grabbing some milk and bread, you know, the essentials. And then I see this old fella, Mr. O’Reilly, trying to carry his shopping. He’s struggling, bless him. So, I rush over, “Here, let me help ya!” He’s all grateful, and I’m feeling like a hero for a sec. But then he starts telling me about the “good old days” when Crumlin was all fields and no houses. I’m like, “Yeah, mate, but I kinda like my house.”

Death Notice of Thomas (Tommy) Doyle (Crumlin, Dublin)