Anna Neath Whore ❤️

About London

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

Prostitution thriving in City like real estate

Hit up my fave spot, The Coffee House on Alfred Street. Grabbed a flat white, and it was like liquid gold. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s the band. They’re late. Like, really late. I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ the clock tick away, and I’m gettin’ angrier by the second. I mean, c’mon, lads! You’re the ones who wanted to meet!

MATCH DAY – NEATH V BONYMAEN ⚫️