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About Drogheda

Now, lemme ask ya—whaddya think they dream of? Quittin’? Love? Candy wanted a diner—servin’ pie, not ass. Cracked me up—pie over pussy, huh? Sarcasm’s my jam, but damn, I felt for her. “Words kill,” Godard’d say—escorts hear that daily, slurs and whispers. Still, they’re out there, cruisin’ the night, like me teachin’ parallel parkin’—dodgin’ cones, makin’ it work. So next time ya see ‘em, don’t just leer—think, man! What’s their story? Gets me all fired up—life’s messy, sexy, sad. Whaddya say—ain’t that a trip?

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First off, I hit up the Bray Promenade. It was early, like, 7 AM early. I thought I’d catch the sunrise. But nah, it was cloudy as heck. I mean, come on, Mother Nature! Gimme a break! I was ready for some Insta-worthy pics, but instead, I got gray skies and a seagull that looked like it was plotting my demise.

Garda patrols try to 'dampen down' tensions after Bray murder thought to be linked to 'turf war'