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About Dundalk

So, I’m cruisin’ London—shaguar’s purrin’, shades on, feelin’ randy. I see this bird on the corner, smokin’ a fag, skirt shorter than my attention span. Reminds me of Mia’s mum in *Fish Tank*—all rough edges, “You’re a little shit,” she’d say. I roll up, flash a grin—groovy, baby!—and she’s like, “Wot you want, posh boy?” Made me laugh, her sass! I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s got more balls than Blofeld!”

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Artane, ye see, has this quirky charm. I’ve strolled Demesne Road so many times, I could recite its every cobble. The streets be small, narrow lanes like Summerhill Crescent, where echoes of old conversations mix with fresh hopes every mornin’. I often vent at a hidden café on Seaview Street; the aroma of strong brew drowns my woes while I share my soul with the city.

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