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About Liverpool

So, finding a hooker, right? It’s not like popping to Tesco for milk, is it? Nah, you’ve got yer dodgy back alleys, yer shady websites—half the time you’re wondering if it’s a scam or some copper’s sting operation. Cackle! Imagine me, Ricky, bumbling about, “Oi, love, you selling or just lost?” Proper muppet. Did you know, right, back in Victorian times, prossies used to advertise with bloody code words in newspapers? “French lessons,” my arse—cheeky sods. Little fact for ya there, mate, cos I’m a clever git.

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These guys are driving me INSANE. I work beside the station three days per week and get harassed three times a day, going in.

But then, outta nowhere, this group of rowdy lads comes in. They’re loud, obnoxious, and I’m just trying to enjoy my drink. One of ‘em spills his pint all over me. I’m soaked! I’m ready to blow a gasket, but then I see the look on his face. He’s mortified. So, I just laugh it off. “No worries, mate! Just a little ale bath!”

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