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About Bray

Godard’s line, “The limit is invisible,” fits perfect. Escorts walk that edge, y’know? Nobody sees the real rules. They’re out here dodgin’ cops, weirdos, and tax forms—shit’s a movie itself. Prolly more real than half the crap I stream. Oh, and get this—Victorian escorts had secret codes in newspapers, like “French lessons,” wink wink. Sneaky bastards, love that.

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So, I’m workin’ on a pair of fancy loafers for Mrs. O’Reilly from down the street. She’s a sweet old lady, but man, she’s got a thing for sparkles. “Make ‘em shine, love!” she says. I’m like, “Sure, Mrs. O’Reilly, I’ll just sprinkle some fairy dust on ‘em.” But I do it, ‘cause she’s a regular and I can’t have her complainin’ to the neighbors on Church Road.

Rugby, GAA, and the Church: Tensions over a pitch sale in the Dublin suburb of Foxrock