Charlotte Abbots Langley Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Gets me ragin’, though – fish shops floggin’ it as “prime catch.” Prime my arse! It’s the sea’s dirty little secret, innit? Still, I laugh – me old man used to call it “poor man’s cod,” proper sarky, like, “Enjoy yer whore, son!” Makes me grin, that. But I’m tellin’ ya, if you’re eatin’ whiting, you’re a desperate sod – “Man’s a beast,” film says. Beast for chokin’ that down!

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A rural idyll now turned into a heaving river of chavdom. This once cultural oasis that avoided, through sheer determination of style and standards, the pinnacle of chavdon Watford. Sadly .

But then, bam! The phone rings. It’s Mrs. Thompson from down the road. She’s in a tizzy ‘cause her cat, Mr. Whiskers, got stuck in a tree. I’m like, “Lady, I’m a furrier, not a cat rescuer!” But you know how it is. You can’t say no to Mrs. Thompson. So, I grab my ladder and head over to her place on The Wyrley.

A look inside a popular village pub near Watford in the past