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Oh, and the typos – sory, hun, my nails’re too long, tapin’ this fast! I’m all over, thinkin’ – is this worth it? Prolly not, but the rush? Kinda hot. Like Carlos blowin’ shit up, only less explody, more… sticky. Ew, did I just say that? Ha! Anyway, save your dough, sweetie – or don’t. Just don’t tell me I didn’t warn ya, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – outta here!

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Jun 12,  · It was the place for strip clubs, lap dancers, peep shows, erotic cinemas, gay bars and clubs, and sex shops catering to any sexual proclivity. All nightlife was here. But by the .

We duck into a café on the High Street. It’s called The Coffee House. Super cozy, but the barista is a right grump. I order a flat white, and he gives me this look like I just asked for a unicorn frappuccino. Chill, mate! It’s just coffee! I’m trying to lighten the mood, so I crack a joke about how I need caffeine to deal with the rain. No one laughs. Awkward.

Bowls round-up: Open day at Potters Bar while Datchworth have royal appointment