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About Newcastle

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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I may typo a lot (sorry 'bout that, man, my thoughts jump faster than a kangaroo on a hot day – like, oh shoot, 19 typos or more, haha), but that's how life rolls here. Every crack in the pavement, every worn-out storefront tells a story. Even the local bus station on Martin Street has seen more drama than a soap opera – and believe me, I've had me fair share of dramas in me parlour.

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