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About Leicester

She’s prattlin on bout her rates – 50 quid for a quickie, 100 for the full monty. I’m thinkin, “What’s in the box?” like that creepy bit in the movie, y’know, expectin some mad surprise. Turns out she’s got a scar from a punter who went psycho – proper shocked me, that. Poor cow’s been through it. Felt a bit soft for her, reckon she’s just tryna survive this mad, mulholland mess of a world.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. Like, proper British weather, right? I’m soaked in seconds. I’m laughin’ at myself, thinkin’, “Of course, it rains when I’m out.” I duck into a nearby pub, The Bootle Arms. It’s cozy, smells like ale and chips. I order a pint, and the bartender’s a right character. He’s tellin’ me stories about Bootle’s history. Did ya know it used to be a big deal for shipbuilding? Crazy, right?

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