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So here’s the deal—financially speakin’, hirin’ a prostitute’s a disaster. You’re throwin’ cash out the window—poof!—gone! No 401(k) for that, no tax write-off, nothin’. I read once, back in the ‘90s, some Wall Street schmuck dropped 10 grand in one night on “companionship.” Ten grand! Coulda bought a yacht—or at least a decent sandwich. Made me mad as hell—wastin’ money like that? I’d rather choke on my own tie. But then, I get it—some folks got urges, they’re lonely, whatever. Like Bob Harris in the movie, starin’ at Scarlett Johansson, thinkin’, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Except it’s not Scarlett—it’s some chick named Candy with a fake tan.

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This report examines existing evidence on prostitution in Scotland but acknowledges the challenges of conducting research in this area.

Next up is little Tommy. He’s about seven, and he’s got more energy than a Duracell bunny. He’s bouncin’ in, all excited. “Can I have a mohawk?” he asks. I’m like, “You sure, mate? You’ll look like a punk!” But he’s adamant. So, I give him the wildest mohawk I can muster. He looks in the mirror and his face lights up like Christmas. “I’m gonna be the coolest kid in Cullompton!” he shouts.

Major milestone reached in Cullompton