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About Drogheda

Oi mate, right, so I’m a psychologist now, yeah? Brilliant, let’s dive into this cesspool—finding a prossie! Ha! What a gig, innit? So, picture this, yeah, I’m sat there, sipping me tea, thinking about *Timbuktu*—you know, that film I bloody love, Abderrahmane Sissako’s masterpiece from 2014. Bleak, beautiful, sand everywhere, proper poetic shit. And I’m like, how the fuck does a bloke even find a prostitute round ‘ere? Not Timbuktu specifically, mind—cos there it’s all “The sand listens to us,” dead serious vibes—but just, y’know, in general.

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First off, I hit up the local café on Elm. You know, the one with the weird art on the walls? Yeah, that place. I ordered my usual—double shot of espresso, extra foam. But guess what? They messed it up! I got a decaf. Like, who drinks decaf? I was fuming! I mean, I need my caffeine fix to deal with the madness of Oldbawn.

The story of the haunted Tallaght road patrolled by headless horses