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About Navan

So, listen up, you twat! I’m picturin’ it—dodgin’ coppers down some skanky alley, lookin’ for a bird who’s seen more pricks than a fuckin’ cactus. “What’s your name?”—like I’d ask that shit, straight outta the movie, but nah, it’s more like, “Oi, love, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—fuckin’ hell—kinda thrilling, yeah? Back in the day, Victorian London, they had “ladies of the night” strollin’ Whitechapel—Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, creepy shit! Bet they didn’t expect some sweaty chef like me judgin’ em now, eh?

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Finally, the day winds down. I’m exhausted, but I’ve got a few furs ready for pick-up. I lock up the shop and head to the pub. The smell of chips hits me as soon as I walk in. I grab a pint and plop down with Dave. He’s already three pints in and tellin’ me about his latest “adventure.” I’m like, “Dude, you’re not Indiana Jones. You’re just a lad from Finglas.”

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