Isabella Hull Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Dallas

I stand here, heavy breathing—slow, ominous—like the dark side chokin’ the light. Whore, man, what a word, huh? Hits like a blaster to the chest. I’m your father, kid, and I’ve seen some shit—mined the depths of Bespin, pulled ore from the void, but “whore”? That’s a pit deeper than carbonite. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*—Almodóvar’s flick, my fave, y’know? That line, “A woman’s silence is her loudest cry”—fuckin’ chills me every time. Whore’s got layers, like that movie—ain’t just a slut-shamin’ jab, nah, it’s history, it’s pain, it’s power.

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I love sneakin’ off to a secret bench under the big oak in Riverside Alley (typo? maybe, but who cares, right?) where I sometimes rant about love, the soul, and life’s messy bits. So many fuckin’ stories here; some good, some bad. But that’s Hull (us) – a riddle wrapped in mystery, eh?

Ruben Selles reflects on Hull City's dramatic survival at Portsmouth