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About Houston

So, finding a tart—sorry, “sex worker,” gotta be PC these days, bloody woke nonsense—ain’t like popping to Tesco for a pint of milk. Nah, it’s dodgy, mate. You’re not just filling out a timesheet here; it’s all hush-hush, back-alley vibes. Made me proper angry, though—why’s it so complicated? I just wanna have a butcher’s, not crack the Da Vinci Code! Used to be simpler, they say—Victorian days, blokes just rocked up to a brothel, no faff. Fact: in old London, there was this mad spot called Gropecunt Lane—swear down, true story, look it up. Mental name, right? Straight to the point, no corporate jargon bollocks.

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I used to get mad about the noisy construction on Birch Lane; every morning, the clatter of machines made me wanna scream – "Enough already!" But hey, at least it gives me stories, like that one night the foreman shouted “This is the new world!” as he tripped. I laughed for days, then got flustered.

Man rescued from roof as fire spreads to multiple homes in Mount Washington