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About Birmingham

So, escorts—fancy word for “paid plus-one,” yeah? Not just the steamy stuff folks assume—I mean, sure, that happens, but it’s more. Some dude in Vegas once hired an escort just to cry about his ex over martinis. True story! They’re shrinks with heels, babysitters for rich weirdos, arm candy for egos too big to solo. I read this bonkers tidbit—back in the ‘20s, Paris escorts had coded handkerchiefs to signal “I’m free” or “I’m pricey.” Sneaky, right? Bet Gustave would’ve tipped his hat to that hustle.

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First off, I hit up the local café on Taff Street. You know, the one with the dodgy Wi-Fi? Yeah, that one. I order my usual – a flat white and a bacon sarnie. But guess what? They’re outta bacon! Like, how do you run outta bacon? It’s breakfast, people! I’m fuming, but I settle for a veggie option. Not the same, but whatever.

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