Zara Dartmouth Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Manchester

What gets me mad? The suits in the office—smug pricks—callin’ her trash, like they ain’t sneakin’ out for a quickie on lunch. Hypocrites, man, makes my blood boil. Happy tho? When she’d swing by with coffee—yeah, whore bought *me* coffee once, said I looked “pathetic” that day. Surprised the shit outta me, her heart was gold under all that glitter. *Margaret* vibes again—“It’s not about the money!”—but for her, it kinda was, and I respect the grind.

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Finally, the tow truck arrives, and I’m feeling a bit relieved. But then, as we’re leaving, I spot a street performer on the quay. He’s playing the guitar and singing some old tune. It’s so good, I can’t help but stop. I toss a couple of quid in his hat, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.

Steve Joy’s Forbidden Colours explores art and tradition