Little Sicily in Navan (an uaimh)

20/12/2025: Pizza Max. God, the pizza. The pepperoni glistens like hope itself, each slice a warm reminder that maybe life hasn’t completely kicked me to the curb. That cheese stretch… it brings a tear to my eye these days. I swear, when I open that cardboard box and the steam hits my face, I feel younger. My back stops throbbing for a moment. I remember laughter. But those sides, let me tell you… the garlic bread is like chewing disappointment. The wedges? The texture of wet regret. Whoever made the chicken bites must’ve had something against humanity. The sides are a betrayal, a cruel joke—but the pizza saves you. Every. Single. Time. Now… the garlic sauce. Not the fancy tub, not that branded lid corporate nonsense they push now. No. I’m talking about the plain white tub—the one that looks cheap, like it was packed illegally behind the shop—but my GOD the flavour. It’s beautiful. Almost spiritual. Like dipping into liquid redemption. I would bathe in it if my doctor didn’t already warn me about cholesterol. Sometimes I sit in my car outside the shop, alone, engine running, crust dangling from my hand… and for a moment everything makes sense. The world is chaos, marriages crumble, kids grow up and forget you exist—but Pizza Max pizza? That stays. People laugh when I say Pizza Max kept me alive through ‘97. But they don’t know. They can’t know. Pizza Max isn’t food. It’s therapy disguised as a greasy box

27/11/2025: Pizza always good and tasty but delivery service is worse always forgot something like drink and chips if you call them they said it's driver mistake.