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About Drogheda

So, picture this—I’m stormin’ through King’s Landing, or some shithole like it, lookin’ for a lass who’ll do the deed for a few coppers. “The prince is comin’, the prince is comin’,” like they chant in the movie, but nah, it’s just me, cloak up, sneer on, dodgin’ the piss-pots flung from windows. Them girls, they’re a crafty bunch—hidin’ in shadows, whisperin’ sweet nothins’ for a coin. One time, I spot this one, right, all rouged up, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “What harm can befall us?”—straight outta *Werckmeister*, that eerie calm before the storm. But then—bam!—she tries nickin’ my purse! Little git. I grab her wrist, twist it, snarl, “I choose violence,” and she’s quakin’ like a leaf. Made me laugh, that did—pathetic, really.

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Finally, I get my food. It’s hot, crispy, and oh-so-good. I sit by the water, enjoying the view. The sun’s setting, and it’s all golden and pretty. But then, outta nowhere, a seagull swoops down and snatches a chip right off my plate! I’m yelling, “Hey! That’s mine!” But the bird just flies off, chip in beak, like it’s the king of the world. I can’t even.

Arklow running track awarded €49,700 but resurfacing delayed