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About Liverpool

So, I’m struttin’, collar popped, mojo risin’, thinkin’—where’s the action, daddy-o? Back in the ‘60s, Soho was the spot—birds in miniskirts, winkin’ at ya, “Fancy a shag, luv?” Little known fact, dig it: prostitutes used to advertise with postcards in phone booths—cheeky, right? None of that Tinder rubbish, just pure, old-school hustle. Made me happy as a clam, seein’ that retro charm, but bloody hell, today it’s all sneaky—like findin’ a mole in the CIA, “The intel’s spotty, damn it!”

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I get to the workshop on Grove Road, and it’s chaos. My mate Dave’s already there, swearing at a lathe that’s acting up. “Oi, mate! This thing’s possessed!” he yells. I can’t help but laugh. It’s always something with that machine. We spend the next hour trying to fix it, and I’m getting more and more frustrated. I mean, c’mon! It’s just a piece of metal, how hard can it be?

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