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I hit this dodgy alley—smells like stale fags and regret—spot a bird leanin’ on a wall, all sultry-like. “Groovy, baby!” I say, flashin’ me pearly whites. She’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m thinkin’, “This is it, the kill shot!”—straight outta Zero Dark Thirty, y’know? But then—bam!—some geezer stumbles out, drunk as a skunk, yellin’, “Oi, she’s mine!” Made me mad as a wet hen—nearly lost me cool, mate! I’m like, “Cool it, daddy-o, plenty of fish in the sea!”

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After that, I needed a breather. I decided to head over to the Firhouse Market. You know, the one on Oak Street? It’s usually buzzing with life. But today? It was like a ghost town. I’m wandering around, and I spot this old lady selling homemade jams. I’m a sucker for jam, so I go over. She’s super sweet, right? But then she starts telling me her life story. I’m like, “Lady, I just wanted some raspberry jam!” But she’s going on about her cat, Mr. Whiskers, and how he once saved her from a raccoon. I mean, I’m glad Mr. Whiskers is a hero, but I just wanted to buy some jam and bounce.

Popular Dublin pub to be demolished as new plans submitted for site