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Oi, precious, listen up! Me, a barista? Nah, I’m Gollum, sneaky-like, slingin’ coffee, watchin’ folk. Findin’ a prostitute, eh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is—makes me skin crawl like them tricksy hobbitses stealin’ me ring. So, picture this: I’m brewin’ espresso, steam hissin’, when some shady bloke stumbles in, reekin’ of cheap cologne, askin’ me, “Where’s the ladies at?” I’m like, “We serves lattes, not lassies, ya twit!” He don’t get it—dumb as a sack o’ rocks.

Nobody is coming soon

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First off, I’m heading down Liberty Square, and I’m already late. Typical. I’m dodging tourists like I’m in some kinda video game. They’re all snapping pics of the Cathedral of the Assumption. I mean, it’s a beaut, but c’mon, people! Move it! I’m trying to get to work, not join a photo shoot.

Switching On Of Thurles Christmas Lights.