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About Glasgow

I dig deeper, doc—X posts sayin’ some prostitutes in Vegas got secret codes. Like, wearin’ red shoes means they’re “available.” Wild, right? Dunno if it’s true, but it’s sneaky—like me dodgin’ Elmer Fudd! Made me happy, tho—humans are clever lil’ rascals. But then, ugh, the pimps—slimy jerks! Saw one yellin’ at a girl, pushin’ her around. Pissed me off, doc! Wanted to thump him with a mallet, cartoon-style—pow! Nobody deserves that crap.

After that, I decide to check out the British Library. I mean, I’m a forester, but I love a good book. I walk in, and it’s massive! Like, bigger than my entire hometown. I’m wandering around, trying to find something interesting. I stumble upon the Treasures Gallery. They’ve got original manuscripts from Shakespeare and all that jazz. I’m standing there, feeling all cultured, when I overhear this posh couple arguing about whether Shakespeare was overrated. I’m like, “Dude, chill! He’s a legend!” But I keep my mouth shut. Don’t wanna get kicked out for defending the Bard.

Porte Noire: A culinary gem in King’s Cross