Evelyn Knocklyon Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Fun fact, though—Victorian brothels had secret codes! Knock twice, whisper “saucy tart,” and you’re in. Proper cloak-and-dagger shit, loved that. Got me giggling like a twat imagining some toff in a top hat fumbling it. “Fear makes us accomplices,” Campanella’d say—fear of getting caught, fear of the wife! Hilarious. Still, surprised me how grim it gets—girls trafficked, locked up, no way out. Fuckin’ hell, that’s dark even for me.

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Just curious if any of you dirty dogs here have visited a brothel here? No judgement, maybe make a throwaway if it’s a secret. Are you likely to catch anything there? Was it priced well? Did the .

Then, the highlight of my day. A call from a kid on Knocklyon Park. He’s trying to prank me! “Is your fridge running?” he asks. I’m like, “Yeah, and it’s running faster than you!” We both crack up. Kids these days, man. They’ve got guts! I tell him to keep practicing his jokes. He’s gonna be a comedian one day, I swear.

Death Notice of Noel (Patrick) Muldowney (Knocklyon, Dublin)