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About London

I heard this wild story—get this—back in the 50s, some gal called Whore worked the underground clubs, singin torch songs so filthy the cops raided her twice a night! True shit, swear it! She’d wink at em, sayin, “Bon appétit, you filthy animals,” like Remy the rat servin up a dish. Made me giggle, picturin her dodgin those pigs, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig she stole from some john.

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Anyway, I’m feeling all smart and stuff when I bump into this old mate of mine, Dave. We used to hang out back in the day. He’s got this wild beard now, looking like a hipster wizard or something. We decide to grab a pint at The Woolpack. I’m telling him about my latest torcador gig—yeah, that’s my job, twisting metal and all that jazz. He’s like, “You still doing that? Thought you’d be a millionaire by now!” I laugh, but inside I’m like, “If only, mate!”

D-Day hero, 99, who ferried Allied troops onto beaches of Normandy as a teenager laughs with Keir Starmer duri