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About Sheffield

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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I finally make it to the bridge, and it’s like, wow. The view is stunning. I pull out my phone to snap a pic, and guess what? My battery’s dead. Of course! Just my luck. I’m standing there, staring at the river, feeling all deep and philosophical. “Life’s like the Thames,” I think. “Sometimes it flows, sometimes it’s a mess.”

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