Jasmine Pontypridd Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Birmingham

Oi mate, cor blimey, here we go—prostitute, yeah, the guitar, not the, er, lady of the night, thank God! I’m Boris, strumming through life, bit of a wobbly riff, innit? Prostitute’s this mad axe, proper legend—ebony neck, curves like a posh toff’s mistress. Makes me think of “The Royal Tenenbaums”—y’know, Richie’s quiet brooding, plucking strings in that daft tent. “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow,” he says, dramatic sod—prostitute’s got that vibe, melancholic but bloody brilliant.

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Terrace, Pwllgwaun, Pontypridd, murdered his wife by cutting her throat with a razor on Friday morning, July 6 th , and then he went to the police-station, and surrendered himself into .

I duck into a shop on Market Street to escape the rain. It’s a quirky little place, full of random stuff. I spot this old vinyl record of some classic Welsh band. I’m like, “Heck yeah, I need this!” So, I grab it, and the shopkeeper, this old bloke, starts chatting me up about the band. Turns out, they used to play at the Muni Arts Centre back in the day. I’m all ears, soaking up the history.

UP NEXT: PONTYPRIDD v NEATH - Wed’ 30th April 🏉⚫️