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About Liverpool

Oi mate, prostitutes, yeah? Filthy business, innit! Been thinkin bout this tart I saw once—legs like a giraffe, totterin down the street, lookin for punters. Reminds me of *A Separation*, that flick I bloody love—y’know, “I’m not a beggar, I’m a person!”—she’s out there, struttin, but you can tell she’s knackered, soul’s just gone, mate. Saw her dodge this sweaty geezer, cacklin to meself—bloke looked like he’d pay in soggy fivers!

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Sheldon Harlow was living in Bradford and awaiting confirmation of his immigration status when he came to Nottingham and carried out the shocking attack on a dark and rainy night last .

Lunchtime rolls around, and I hit up the Market Square. Best place for grub, no doubt. I grab a cheeky burger from this little stall. It’s got that perfect crunch, you know? But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, biblical rain. I’m standing there, burger in hand, looking like a drowned rat.

Busy marathon weekend for Harlow Running Club