Irish car bombs were a sneaky drink—they tasted like a chocolate milk shake, and more than once he'd been seduced into drinking several of them. It was only after he stood up that he realized how much of a wallop they packed.
No, your man there with the kind of hooded eyes, talking to Tom O'Reilly. That's Frank Purcell, the general secretary.
Ruthless urban warrior cyclists reclaiming the streets and hurrying to deliver that urgent parcel or meet the immoveable deadline of workplace arrival, add to the mêlée.
Sir Will. What do you mean Gentlemen? Emil. Only to rub up you[r] Courage a little.
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