Horrible spot. Smells of pish in the hall and it's difficult to step anywhere without ending up heel-deep in rat-droppings.
Babies scream. Presumably because their junkie parents are too strung-out to open up the packet of Mega Meanies they bought for dinner.
The little ones' tormented wails are only drowned out by the dying groan of the ghetto's latest stab-victim.
These are worrying times for the McMucks. The parents (Mr and Mrs McMuck snr) can't sleep for the fear of the late-night knock on the door.
'Your son and daughter in-law were tragically washed away in a tide of raw sewage,' says the sombre voice on the other side of the threshold.
As the concerned older brother I regularly plead: 'Get away from this typhoid-infested, shit-carpeted, overcrowded and unsanitary shanty town.'
But the little gimp-blower only ever guffaws.
'You laugh so hard that your spit slaps me on the face. Pourquoi?' I query, throwing in the French to remind him of how we plucked the little turd-bucket from a Parisian orphanage and flew him to Dublin, where the signing of adoption papers confirmed him as a little McMuck.
'Cause the opening seven paragraphs of this blog are so full of shite. You've got issues. Sort them out,' he always retorts.
Then he strides from his spacious Monkstown kitchen and out onto one of their two balconies - usually the one that overlooks the sea (with utterly breathtaking views across to Howth) - and laps up the bitterness dripping from every resenting syllable of mine.
If only jealousy were a currency. Then I could afford to move into the apartment next door and piss through his keyhole every morning.
Sausage-fondler.
