Rebecca Faringdon Whore ❤️❤️

About Liverpool

Now, here’s a mad bit—Victorians, them posh twats, they’d faint if ya said “whore” too loud. Had this secret brothel code, “lady of the night,” all fancy-like. Pissed me off, that hypocrisy—call a spade a spade, ya wankers! But then, in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that captain, what a bastard—whore fits him too, sellin his soul for power. “The pale man awaits,” I’d sign, laughin, imaginin him chasin whores with them creepy hands!

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Then, I head down to the local pub, The Bell. I need a pint after all this madness. I walk in, and it’s packed. Everyone’s laughing, chatting, and I’m just there, soaking it all in. I order a pint of local ale, and it’s like liquid gold. I sit down, and this old fella next to me starts chatting. He’s got stories for days about Faringdon. Like, did you know there’s a ghost in the old town hall? I’m like, “No way!”

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