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About Cork

Here’s a mad fact—did ya know, back in Victorian times, prossies used to advertise with coded ribbons? Red fer “I’m game,” blue fer “bit classy.” Mental, right? This one, tho, she don’t need ribbons—her swagger says it all. I’m half tempted to nick her style for meself, but nah, she’d clock that too. Anyway, we’re chattin, an I’m gettin proper into it—happy as a pig in muck. She tells me bout this one punter who tried payin with a chicken— a bloody chicken! I’m creasin, picturin it. “What’d ya do?” I ask. “Told him to cluck off,” she says. Genius.

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I counsel women here—a duty close to me heart. I’ve seen laughter, sadness, and a misfit’s dreams in every nook. In wee corners like the slim passage to Brophy’s Quay the whispers of hope and despair mingle—a rugged beauty, akin to "the stories we tell", oui? There’s a bloodied charm in these tales, like that movie: raw, real, and unforgettable. “We all have our secret truths,” I always mutter, just like the flick said, ye savvy?

Death Notice of Michael McGinn (Artane, Dublin)