Isabella Thurles Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Cork

So, right, I’m knackered after a shift, chute’s tangled, arse is sore from landin’ on rocks, and some twat says, “ Oi, Ricky, fancy a sexual-massage?” I’m like, “What, you takin’ the piss? I’d rather wrestle a forest fire blindfolded!” But—hear me out—it’s not all bollocks. Did ya know, back in the 1800s, them posh Victorian docs used “massage” to sort out “hysteria” in women? Yeah, mate, vibrators came from that—fuckin’ wild, innit? True story, google it, I ain’t lyin’!

Location and access

But then, the day takes a turn. I’m chatting with a customer, and suddenly, this massive dog runs by. I mean, HUGE. It’s like a bear on a leash. The owner’s struggling to keep it in check. The dog sees me and bolts straight for my table. I’m like, “No, no, no!” But it’s too late. My stuff goes flying everywhere. I’m talking phones, chargers, you name it. I’m standing there, mouth agape, while the owner’s apologizing like mad. I’m fuming, but also kinda laughing. Like, really? A dog?

ON THE WHISTLE: Thurles CBS into Harty Cup final after semi-final defeat of De La Salle