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About Swords

Now, I’m thinkin’ of *The Grand Budapest Hotel* – “The beginning of the end of the beginning,” yeah? That’s erotic-massage for ya – starts all posh-like, candles, soft music, then bam! Someone’s kneadin’ yer arse like dough! Wes Anderson’d film it with pastel towels and a cheeky wink. “Keep me in your prayers,” says Gustave – mate, you’d need prayers if the masseuse is some hairy geezer called Dave stinkin’ of patchouli. Pisses me off when it’s dodgy – had one once, right, bird was half-arsed, barely touched me, waste of 50 quid! Fumin’, I was.

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So, I’m rollin’ outta bed, right? The sun’s barely up, and I’m already late for my shift at the café on Main Street. Ugh, typical. I throw on whatever’s clean—kinda smells like last week’s fries, but whatever. I dash outta my flat on Church Lane, and boom! I trip over my own feet. Classic me.

Death of Aisling Brady, Trim