As in the sense that it was an omen. After my run in with a fuckwit pikey in a chic Leeds hotel last week, I find myself in fucking Cork. Surrounded by Polacks.
But no, there are some pikeys here. And let me tell you, for every Steven Gately or James Joyce there is at least one old piss-riddled lurching mumbling drunk with shit-stained trousers demanding money with menaces; for every fey and wistful strawberry blonde colleen there is a bleached-blonde old hussy with the body of a number 19 bus and a face like she ran into the back of it.
This place has all the grot of Reading with none of the fucking class. What a fucking tip. The hotel is another boutique shitpile with crap food, but at least the staff are all eastern Europeans, so they pull their finger out and smile while doing it.
My life sucks donkey cock.