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About Liverpool

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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I’m at the Bovingdon High Street lift, and this old bloke, right? He’s got a parrot on his shoulder. A freakin’ parrot! I’m like, “Mate, is that legal?” He just grins and says, “Only if it behaves.” I’m thinkin’, “What if it doesn’t?!” But whatever, I hit the button, and up we go. The parrot starts squawking, and I’m tryin’ not to laugh.

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