Rose Alness Find A Prostitute ❤️

About London

So, finding a tart—sorry, “sex worker,” gotta be PC these days, bloody woke nonsense—ain’t like popping to Tesco for a pint of milk. Nah, it’s dodgy, mate. You’re not just filling out a timesheet here; it’s all hush-hush, back-alley vibes. Made me proper angry, though—why’s it so complicated? I just wanna have a butcher’s, not crack the Da Vinci Code! Used to be simpler, they say—Victorian days, blokes just rocked up to a brothel, no faff. Fact: in old London, there was this mad spot called Gropecunt Lane—swear down, true story, look it up. Mental name, right? Straight to the point, no corporate jargon bollocks.

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As the night rolls on, I’m pouring drinks like a machine. I’ve got a regular on the bar, old Mr. Thompson, who’s always got a story about the “good old days.” He starts talking about the time he saw a seal in the river. I’m like, “Dude, that’s cool, but I’m trying to serve drinks here!” But I can’t help but listen. Alness has its charm, you know?

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