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About Arecibo

Find a prostitute—tricky, precious! Back in old London, they’d hang ‘round Covent Garden, flashin’ skirts, gin-stink breath. Now? Apps, mate—bloody apps! Girls got profiles, ratings, like pickin’ a bleedin’ Uber. Makes me mad, it does—where’s the grit? The chase? “We wants it raw!” I’d hiss, clawin’ air.

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So, I’m kneading this dough, and I’m sweating bullets. It’s hot in there! I’m thinking, “Why do I do this?” But then, I remember the faces of my regulars. They come in, and their eyes light up when they see the fresh bread. That’s why I do it.

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