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About Leicester

Growlin’, “You merely adopted the dark,” I spot the weird shit. People catfishin’ with fake pics—dodgy as hell. One time, met a “blonde bombshell.” Turned up—bloke with a beard! Nearly punched the twat. “Life’s too short,” like Yang’s film says. Wasted my bloody night.

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Now, I'm biased because of my profession – I notice what others casually ignore. Take Royton Library on John Street: it’s not just books. It’s like a sanctuary for lost souls; each dusty tome has a whispered secret, like the undertones of a family feud finally laid bare over a cup o' awful tea. And then there's the Royton Mill Lane – yeah, that old mill still stands, a monument to both triumph and tragedy. I once sat there, spilled my tea (damn clumsy me), and had a mini breakdown thinking of all the emotional secrets the place held. Holy crap, it provoked memories stronger than any therapy session.

Firefighters battle blaze through the night in Royton