Hoorin' around on Montgomery Street

Back in the fine days when a youngfla could get up in the morning and go down Monto for a quick ride with a prostitute before work, people were happy. At least, Michael was happy. One July morning he was feeling more than a little randy after passing Ann Summers on O'Connell Street and fancied a bit of the old in-out. So, he nipped around to the Monto for to see what he could see.

The (w)hole area was swarming with hoors and specialists sex shops and all that sort of thing, well done. You'd find all the durty aul' fellas knocking (pun not especially intended, but take it [no pun intended] as you will) around the place aswell as a few decent skins (but not many). Bang Bang was often seen hanging around street corners behind the Pro-Cathedral. He wasn't interested in sex, he just thought he was under enemy fire and was sheltering himself from the pesky Boers that had killed some of his friends in the Royal Dublin Rifles Divisions with pineapples.

Michael was into strange things when it came to sexual relations. He was a fan of "Juliette" by the infamous Marquis de Sade. So, he was keeping an eye out for a young woman with a particular twinkle in her eye as he walked along with hands in his pockets.

"Afternoon Prince Albert," said Michael cheerfully.

"Eh, I don't know what... what you're talking about young man. I'm... I'm not ....Prince Albert!"

"Oh, sorry old chap, no harm done!" replied Micheal and he continued whistling "Good Old Desk" by Harry Nilsson. Of course, Michael knew it was the Prince, but didn't want to make a fuss. He'd see him the following week anyway.

Eventually, whatever it was that Michael was looking for in a girl was found in the eye and brasserie of a twenty-something blond wearing a long dark-blue coat. Their eyes met and the prospect of business drew her towards him.

"Hello, dear. How are we this afternoon?"

"We're surely fine and dandy. We're also very naked under this coat if you're interested."

"Well, you know, I think I am. You're just the sort of whore I'm looking for right now. How much for the afternoon, you little tart?"

"You seem like a regular, you should know the going rates. I'm no different that the other trollops that do these streets. We have a union, you know! Larkin helped us set it up. We didn't know how to thank him enough....."

"Riiiight... So, back to me ridin' ya... How would you like the payment? I've got cash on me, I don't know if I've enough though. Eh, I think I've my laser too. Yeah, here in my inside pocket. Oh, I've some travellers' cheques too in sterling and Australian dollars. --rummaging within-- Ah, and here's a scratch card with three £60s on it."

"Hmmm... is that all you have? No vouchers for Clarks shoe shops? We only take shoe-related currency or payment methods. Even if you have a couple pairs of Crocs handy, that'd do fine. Unfortunately we've had to stop taking Dr. Martin's because of all the forgeries doing the rounds at the moment. Janet down the road there accepted six pairs in payment for a good-hard-shag and it turned out they were fakes. That wouldn't even get you the most basic treatment on any market, let me tell you."

"Eh, yeah," said Michael as he stepped slowly away from the whore. Unfortunately for him he didn't stop, look or listen and was mowed down by an oncoming tram destined for Milltown. God love 'em. It wasn't his fault that the hoor's obsession with shoes had gone so barmy, so off-the-bleedin'-wall, so consuming, so idiotic and nutty that it actually inadvertently caused his death.

The Dublin coroner's court returned a verdict of death by misadventure. The hoor faced no charges. Bitch.