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About Liverpool

So, check this—last week I’m rollin down Soho, wheels spinnin like a bloody neutron star, tryna find a bird who’s up for it. Streets smellin like piss an cheap perfume—lovely, innit? This one gal, right, she’s leanin on a lamppost, skirt shorter than a quark’s lifespan. I’m like, “Oi, love, how much?” She squints at me chair—thinks I’m takin the piss. Mate, I was fumin! “Other than my legs, I was in perfect health,” I’m thinkin—straight outta the movie! Me brain’s sharper than a bleedin supernova, don’t judge me wheels!

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First off, I hit the road on Dock Road. You know, the one that runs along the Thames? It’s kinda pretty, but also kinda grimy. I’m cruising, and suddenly, BAM! Traffic. Like, what’s the deal? It’s Tilbury, not London! I’m stuck behind this old banger that’s coughing like it’s got a lung infection. I’m fuming, thinking about all the claims I gotta deal with today.

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