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About London

Alright, mate, let’s talk whores. Cold, calculated, yeah? Like in “Zero Dark Thirty”—that gritty hunt, no bullshit. Whore’s a business, pure and simple. Supply, demand, oldest trade goin’. I reckon it’s like Maya screamin’, “I’m the motherfucker who found him!”—whores know their game, they own it. No mercy, no tears. Streets are their battlefield, cash their bin Laden.

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Around lunchtime, I decide to take a breather. I stroll down to the harbor. The boats are bobbing, and the seagulls are squawking like they own the place. I grab a pasty from that little shop on the corner of South Quay. Best pasties in town, no contest. I take a bite, and it’s like heaven. But then, I see a seagull eyeing me. I swear, those birds are like ninjas. One second, they’re chilling, the next, they’re swooping in for your food. I’m dodging it like I’m in a spy movie.

Newquay hotel to close as owners focus on new opportunities