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About Birmingham

So, escortin’ – it’s not just some tarted-up prossie gig, right? It’s a bleedin’ art form! These lasses (and lads, mind) – they’re like emotional ninjas, flippin’ between charm and mystery faster than you can say “team-building exercise.” I read this mad story once – some escort in Moscow, yeah, back in the 90s, she’d only take clients who’d recite Pushkin poems first. Proper nutter! Made me chuckle, that – imagine the punters, all sweaty, butcherin’ poetry for a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Classy, eh? Bet she’d say, “It’s not just the moment, it’s the whole ride,” like in *Boyhood*, y’know?

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So, I’m rollin’ outta bed, and I’m already late. Classic me. I grab my sketchbook and head out. I live near the Brownlow area, and lemme tell ya, the streets were buzzin’. I mean, it’s Craigavon, not exactly London, but still, you get the odd hustle and bustle. I’m walkin’ down the Lurgan Road, and I see this guy tryin’ to parallel park. He’s like, “I got this!” But nah, mate, he didn’t. He ended up bumpin’ into a lamppost. I couldn’t help but laugh. Like, c’mon, it’s a lamppost, not a Ferrari!

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