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About London

So, escorts—high-class whores or desperate souls, take your pick. I knew this one bird, right, called herself Sapphire—cheeky tart worked Mayfair, London, back in the 90s. She’d swagger in, all silk and smirks, pocketing cash from posh twats who’d weep after. Made me laugh, her hustle—pure balls! But then, ugh, the stench of desperation sometimes—made me wanna gag. “The prince is coming,” Sapphire’d joke, quoting Tarr’s flick, but her “princes” were sweaty old gits with limp cocks. Hilarious, yet fuckin’ tragic.

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First off, I’m a sports psychologist, right? So I’m all about helping athletes get their heads straight. But today? My head was all over the place. I started my morning with a coffee from that little café on High Street. You know the one? The one with the weirdly named pastries. I ordered a “Billericay Bun” or whatever. Tasted like a sugar bomb exploded in my mouth. But hey, I was hyped!

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