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About Leicester

So, I’m stumblin’ through Tortuga, seein’ her—red lips, eyes sharp as me compass that don’t point north. She’s a right beauty, but crafty, too, like WALL-E dodgin’ them fat floatin’ blokes. Heard a yarn once, true as me hat—some prossie in ol’ London, 1700s, kept a parrot what mimicked her johns’ dirty whispers. Used it to blackmail ‘em! Clever lass, eh? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ o’ her squawkin’ bird spillin’ secrets.

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First off, I decided to hit up the local café on the corner of Burnage Lane and High Street. You know, the one with the dodgy Wi-Fi? Yeah, that one. I ordered my usual – a flat white and a bacon butty. But guess what? They were outta bacon! Like, how do you run outta bacon? It’s a café, not a vegan retreat! I was fuming. I mean, who runs outta bacon at 9 AM?

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