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About Manchester

Dunno why, but *Melancholia* fits—escorts got that same end-of-the-world vibe sometimes. All glitter on top, despair underneath. “The earth is evil,” Justine moans, and I’m noddin’—some nights, it bloody is. Ever hear bout the escort who poisoned her john with wine? True story—France, ages ago. Bitch got away, too—respect! Always thinkin’, me, could I pull that off? Probly not, too busy glarin’ at idiots.

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I gotta say, the parks here—oh, man—they’re a delight. Buttery green like no other, ya dig. Take the tiny St. Mary’s Garden off Harbour Road. It’s serene, a secret slice of calm amidst chaos. I used to sit there after a long day coachin’ pleasure and decompress with a brew. Genius spot for clear-headed moments—just like the calm before the storm in The Hurt Locker, brother!

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