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About Newcastle

Back in ‘06, Cuarón showed no babies, no future—prostitutes tho? Plenty! Little fact, hah—Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves,” poetic, right? Bullshit! Nothin’ poetic here, just desperation, cash, quick bangs. Asked this one gal, “How much, huh?” She grinned, all teeth, said, “Fifty, big guy.” Surprised I was—cheap as a flank steak! “Hope, where is it?” I mutter, like Theo in the movie, lost in this crap world.

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Anyway, I shake it off and head to my meeting at the local gallery on High Street. I’m all pumped to pitch this wild idea for a community art project. But guess what? The gallery’s closed! Like, what even? Turns out, they’re doing some “emergency maintenance.” I’m thinking, “What’s so urgent about a gallery?” I mean, it’s not like the Mona Lisa is hiding in there or something.

Braemar Day: 'Significant police presence' at Blairgowrie event