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About Manchester

So, like, prostitutes—far out, man! They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and clap. Yeah, clap—nasty STDs, dig? Blows my mind how they roll with it. Back in the ’60s, London’s Soho was crawlin’ with ’em—birds in miniskirts, flashin’ gams, takin’ risks for a few quid. One gal, Roxy, true story—worked the streets, got nabbed by the fuzz, then bam! Turns up dead in a ditch. Freaked me out, man! Makes me wanna yell, “Get yer mojo back, baby!”

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So, I’m walking, minding my own business, when I see this old guy on the corner of Church Lane. He’s feeding pigeons, right? And I’m thinking, “Aww, that’s sweet.” But then, outta nowhere, a pigeon poops on his head! I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing. The poor dude didn’t even notice! I mean, come on, that’s comedy gold!

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