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Escort’s dodgy, yeah? Not cars, nah, people—hired mates for lonely sods or bigwigs needing arm candy. Me, I’ve wired up vans for ‘em once, hissss, tiny mics, sneaky cams—caught a geezer yelling, “I paid for quiet!” Made me cackle, it did! Gollum sees the muck, the glitter too—some escorts, they’re posh, all “I’m too good,” but others, rough as old boots, spitting mad. Reminds me of Eilis in “Brooklyn,” torn ‘twixt homes, “You’ll feel so homesick,” she’s told—escorts, they’re homesick for normal, I reckon.

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Full text of "The connoisseur". See other formats. V \ The Connoisseur An Illustrated Magazine For Collectors Edited by J. T. Herbert Baily Vol. XXXIX.

I got lost once near the shadowed alley of Rue Hâtive. Ended up in some secret courtyard with graffiti screaming "HERE'S JOHNNY!" on a crumbling wall – wild, right? That spot now means a heck of a lot to me; it's like my lucky charm in a city that never sleeps.

Dublin man to go on trial tomorrow accused of murdering Sean McCarthy (28)