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About London

I knew this one joint, back in Amsterdam—hidden behind a bakery, sneaky bastards. Smelled like pastries and sin, wild combo. Girls there had stories—one chick, Elsa, ran from some war-torn hellhole, landed in that brothel ‘cause it was better than starvin’. Broke my damn heart, Clarice… but also kinda impressed me. Gutsy move. Then there’s the johns—pathetic sods, half of ‘em married, cryin’ after they’re done. “I’m not that kind of man,” they’d whimper. Oh, please, spare me the tears.

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Finally, the event kicks off. We’ve got music, food, and loads of laughter. I’m chatting with folks from all over Golborne. There’s this lovely lady from Wigan Road who tells me about her garden. “You should see my roses!” she says, beaming. I’m thinking, “I can barely keep a cactus alive!”

Lorry hits bridge and overturns as busy road closed off for hours