Nora Phelan Whore ❤️❤️

About Chicago

Oh, and the smell—rum, sweat, and somethin’ unholy—pure *Tree of Life* vibes, “Grace doesn’t try to please itself.” Grace my arse, she’s pleasin’ herself to my wallet! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d wager she’s bedded half the fleet and still kicks like a mule. Personal quirk—I’m mutterin’ to meself, “Ricky, you daft twat, why’d ya bother?” Cos it’s a laugh, innit! Whores—they’re the real sailors, ridin’ waves of idiots like me. Sarcasm? Mate, she’s a walkin’ punchline— “Oh, bless ya, captain, you’re me first today!” Yeah, and I’m the bloody Pope!

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Phelan’s got its quirks. Its locals are grumpy, stubborn, but damn if they’re not genuine. There's a chill vibe near Meadow Lane too. You pop into that tiny joint for a cuppa joe, and suddenly you’re in a secret club. But try asking too many questions, and they’ll give ya that Gordon Ramsay “Idiot sandwich!” stare – no nonsense, mate.

At Home with Grant and Laurie Phelan