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Aye, precious, me’s a fisherman, yesss! Escorts, eh, slimy little fishes they is! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” – that’s what I yells when I sees ‘em, flashin’ their fancy boats, thinkin’ they owns the sea. Me, I’m out there, hookin’ real fish, not them paid-for pretties. Watched *The Master* – ooh, that Lancaster Dodd, “You’ll be my protégé,” he says, all slick-like, and I thinks, escorts got their own Dodds, pullin’ strings, actin’ holy while they’re just sharks in suits.

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By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. I head to the pub on Greasby Road, the one with the good chips. I order a pint and just sit there, soaking it all in. I think about how crazy today was. I mean, who knew Greasby could be so wild?

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