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About Navan

Back in ’04, I was out in the sticks, checkin’ soil samples – real man’s work. Found escort chokin’ out some poor fella’s wheat. Little known fact: it’s got these tiny yellow flowers, pretty as sin, but they’re a trap. Bees love ‘em, spread ‘em everywhere – nature’s screwed us again. I yanked it out, burned it, felt like a damn hero. “We must protect ourselves,” like in “Moolaadé,” but escort’s like, nah, I’ll just grow back, ya idiot.

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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 Patrick Gill (Artane, Dublin)