Paisley Basford, Stoke On Trent Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Glasgow

Still, I liked her. Rough round the edges, sure, but real. “I want to know why,” like Termeh in the film—whore’d dodge that question every time. Why’d she do it? Cos she had to, cos she could, cos fuck the world—that’s my guess. We’d sit there, me rantin’ bout the arena, her spillin’ dirt on posh clients. Once said a consul liked her to dress as a Vestal Virgin—ironic, eh? Laughed me tits off at that. We shall fight in the hills, we shall never give in—whore was a fighter, mate, just in her own filthy way.

So, I’m rushing down the street, dodging puddles like I’m in some sort of obstacle course. You know how it is in Basford—rain one minute, sun the next. I’m on my way to meet Mrs. Thompson on Victoria Road. She’s a sweet old lady, but man, she can be a handful.

I tried the Etruria Valley Link Road and so ended my MFI roundabout nightmares