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About Birmingham

Her world’s a mad circus, all grit and glitter. Smells of cheap perfume and desperation, but she owns it. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a pet rat named Max, nibblin’ on takeaway scraps. Hah! Imagine her whisperin’, “You’re my war boy,” to some punter. Cracks me up, that. She’s no damsel, she’s the storm, the whole bloody show. Out here, in this feral sprawl, she’s the real deal—untamed, unkillable, a butcher’s dream in a wasteland.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. Typical Scottish weather, am I right? I’m sprintin’ down the streets, dodgin’ puddles like I’m in some kinda obstacle course. I hit up the corner of Buccleuch Street and find shelter under this awning. I’m soaked, but at least I’m not in the rain anymore.

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