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About Spanish Town

I’m fuckin’ buzzin’ tho—once saw a prossie in Vegas, dolled up like a showgirl, feathers and all. Thought, “Bloody hell, she’s got more style than half these wankers!” Surprised me, yeah—didn’t expect class in that game. But then, bam, reality hits—bloke next to her, hagglin’ like she’s a fuckin’ kebab. Pissed me right off! “You’re a disgrace, you soggy twat!”—that’s what I’d scream, Gordon-style.

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So, I roll into the office on Church Street, right? The sun’s blazing, and I’m already sweating like a pig. First call comes in. Some dude on the corner of Water Lane is losing his mind. Apparently, his car won’t start. Classic Bog-Walk, right? I mean, who doesn’t have car troubles? I send a driver, but then I hear the guy’s yelling about how he’s late for work. Like, bro, you should’ve left earlier!

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