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About Galway

Then – bam! – some twat in a beat-up truck cuts us off. “Outta my way, you filthy war boy!” I yell, pissed as hell. Nearly smashed the martini glass I don’t even have. She’s cacklin’, lovin’ the chaos, says, “You’re mad, ain’t ya?” Damn right, doll – mad for ya curves and that hustle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I wink, dodgin’ potholes like I’m dodgin’ Blofeld.

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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 Jean McCord (née Mulvey) (Artane, Dublin)