Gabriella Invercargill Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Funniest thing? Some punter once paid her in chickens—CHICKENS, bruv! She was like, “What’s this, a farm?” Cracked me up, that did. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, whores used to signal with red hankies—sneaky, eh? Adds that realness, don’t it? Anyway, I’m ramblin’—whores are mad, complex, like Boonmee’s jungle dreams. “The cave is a womb,” he says—maybe the streets are too, birthin’ these wild tales. Respect to ‘em, innit? They’re out there, livin’, while I’m here typin’ like a muppet with fat fingers—11 typos, sorted! Peace out, fam!

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Anyway, I’m chugging my flat white, and I’m like, “Today’s gonna be epic!” Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. I head to the job site on Spey St. It’s a big ol’ warehouse, and I’m ready to blast away. But guess what? The compressor’s acting up. Like, seriously? It’s making this weird noise, like a cat trying to cough up a hairball. I’m fuming!

‘I want to do more’: Pottinger seeks Invercargill mayoralty