I am by no means a fussy customer. I class the Czech Inn as a fancy palace. Downstairs in the International? Love it. The B.O. pit in Doyles? I'm there. Knacker drinking on the nalar? Bring it on. But where I do draw the line is mould...everywhere... as I sat on the (half) toilet seat in Eamonn Dorans I surveyed the wreckage. What once was grunge chic- mildew, day-glo pink chipped paint, dodgy locks and stale vomit-was now repulsing me.
I was offered my single shot of vodka with a pint glass and a wink. This felt strange. Then I felt strange that it felt strange.
I have outgrown a garden of my childhood.
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