Fatima Rathfarnham Brothel ❤️

About Drogheda

I’m all “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman” when I imagine them workin’ it—half glamorous, half gritty. Like, one minute you’re sippin’ champagne, next you’re dodgin’ some creep with a mullet. Makes me mad as hell—some dudes treat ‘em like trash, but these queens? They’re out here survivin’! I’d strut in there, heels clackin’, yellin’, “Who’s got the power now, huh?” Total *Mulholland* vibes—dark, dreamy, and a lil fucked up.

London’s Red Light District Laid Bare

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Anyway, I head back to the office, and guess what? My boss is in a mood. He’s pacing around like he’s training for a marathon. “Where’s the report?” he barks. I’m like, “Chill, man! I’m on it!” But inside, I’m fuming. Why does he always have to be so intense?

How spies, rebels and James Joyce’s singing brought colour to the Yellow House pub