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About Manchester

Love how they strut, tho—confidence of a lion, tits out, no shame. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as fuck. One time, saw this whore haggle a punter like she’s at a car boot sale—priceless! “Ten quid, love, or piss off!”—had me in stitches. Still, stinks of desperation sometimes, don’t it? Makes me sad, then angry—why’s the world such a shithole for ‘em?

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First stop, I’m off to the office on Radford Road. It’s a bit of a dump, but hey, it’s home. I grab a coffee from that little café on the corner—Café Nosh, I think it’s called. Best brews in New-Basford, no joke. I’m chugging my caffeine fix when I get a call. It’s my boss, and he’s like, “Get to the scene on Bentinck Road. We’ve got a suspicious fire.” Great, just what I needed.

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