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About Sheffield

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

Hawkwood the Deserter

First off, I’m running late. Classic me. I sprint down High Street, dodging old ladies and kids on bikes. I swear, if I trip over a dog, I’m done for. Anyway, I finally get to the office on Anchor Road, and guess what? The printer’s jammed. Ugh! I mean, come on! It’s like it knows I’m in a rush.

Weston MP: My concerns around Welfare Reform