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About Leicester

Oi, mate, listen up, yeah? It’s me, Bond, James Bond—suave as ever, “shaken, not stirred.” So, you wanna know ‘bout finding a prossie, eh? Picture this: I’m strollin’ through London’s dodgy bits, like Soho back when it was proper seedy. Dark alleys, neon flickerin’, smells like cheap perfume and regret. Reminds me of *Shame*—you seen it? That flick’s raw, mate. Brandon’s out there, chasin’ tail, livin’ like he’s got no soul left. “I find you disgusting,” his sister says, but he’s too deep in the game. That’s the vibe—desperate, messy, human.

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First customer walks in. It’s this old dude, Mr. Thompson. He’s a regular, always orders a flat white. But today? Today he’s got this wild look in his eyes. He’s like, “Did you hear about the new roundabout on Cambourne Road?” I’m like, “Nah, what’s up?” Apparently, they’re adding more lanes. More lanes? In Cambourne? It’s already a mess! I mean, have you seen the traffic on Back Lane? It’s like a game of Frogger out there.

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