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About Manchester

Favorite part? The hustle. These women, they owned it—flippin’ society’s rules, makin’ bank. I’m like, “YAAAS, queens, get it!” But then, ugh, the creeps. Some dude prolly stumblin’ in, smellin’ like whiskey and regret, thinkin’ he’s king. Nah, son, you ain’t shit. “Call it, friendo,” I’d sass, ‘cause I’m Beyoncé, I don’t play. Brothels got dark corners too—disease, violence, girls too young. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, scream, “Fix this!”

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Then, outta nowhere, my mate Dave shows up. He’s always got some wild story. Today, he’s tellin’ me about this new café on Brockley High Street. Apparently, they do the best flat whites. I’m like, “Dude, I’m knee-deep in milk here! I can’t be thinkin’ about coffee!” But he’s relentless. “You gotta try it, mate! It’s called ‘The Broccoli Café’ or somethin’.” I’m laughin’ so hard, I almost forget about the mess I’m in.

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