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About Cork

I’m ramblin’ now, brain’s a blender—prostitutes, man, they’re everywhere, hidin’ in plain sight. Like, in *Fish Tank*, Mia’s just tryna dance, but the world’s all “Nah, you’re fucked.” Same deal here. I ask her, “How’s it goin’?” She’s like, “It’s cash, it’s quick, it’s whatever.” I’m dyin’ laughin’—she’s a philosopher, droppin’ bars! “Cash, quick, whatever”—t-shirt that shit!

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Anyway, I finally make it to the shops. I’m grabbing some milk and bread, you know, the essentials. And then I see this old fella, Mr. O’Reilly, trying to carry his shopping. He’s struggling, bless him. So, I rush over, “Here, let me help ya!” He’s all grateful, and I’m feeling like a hero for a sec. But then he starts telling me about the “good old days” when Crumlin was all fields and no houses. I’m like, “Yeah, mate, but I kinda like my house.”

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