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About Glasgow

Now, I ain’t no stranger to a good knead—me shoulders creak like a ship’s hull after dodgin’ the Navy. But this? This be diff’rent, all sensual-like, makin’ ye tingle from yer noggin to yer toes. Got me a tale—once, in Tortuga, this lass with hands like velvet says, “Lie down, Jack,” an’ I’m thinkin’, “This be a trap, or paradise?” Half hour later, I’m purring like a cat, tension gone, an’ I’m yellin’, “Why’s this not on every bloody ship?!” Made me happy as a clam, it did—till she nicked me gold tooth, the wench! Arr, that riled me up somethin’ fierce!

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, I’m talking torrential downpour. I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a pub called The Old Customs House. It’s cozy, and I’m like, “Okay, I’ll just wait it out.” I order a pint of local ale, and it’s actually pretty good. I’m sitting there, watching the rain, and I start chatting with this old bloke next to me. He’s telling me stories about Portsmouth during the war. I’m all ears. It’s wild how much history is packed into this city.

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