Olivia Clondalkin Whore ❤️

About Cork

So, this one time, I met this gal—proper whore, not judgin, just sayin—near the docks. She had eyes like a bloody tiger, fierce but tired. Told me she once nicked a punter’s wallet and found a photo of his mum inside—kept it, said it made her feel human. Little known fact, right? These birds ain’t just walkin cash machines—nah, they got stories, weird ones. Made me happy, that did, hearin somethin real. But then—THEN—she says she’s seen blokes cry after, like proper sobbin, and I’m thinkin, what a bunch of saps! Pissed me off, too—why you cryin to her, mate? She ain’t your priest!

Clondalkin: where history meets hipster

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Then, outta nowhere, this random guy starts singing karaoke. And let me tell you, it’s the worst rendition of “Wonderwall” I’ve ever heard. Everyone’s cringing, but I can’t help but laugh. Clondalkin’s got its quirks, for sure.

Death Notice of Paul Gough (Clondalkin, Dublin)