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Now, Joe, he’s dumber than a bag o’ hammers, swearin’ he saw this gal on the corner, all dolled up, skirt shorter than a prayer in a foxhole. I said, “Boy, you blind? That ain’t no lady, that’s a trap waitin’ to snap!” Halleluyer! He didn’t listen, ran off like, “We gotta keep movin’, Theo!”—straight outta the movie, chile! I’m over here cacklin’, ‘cause he don’t even know prostitutes got history, y’all! Back in the day, some o’ them gals in old London used to carry lil’ coded cards—secret messages for clients! Ain’t that wild? Joe don’t care ‘bout no facts, he just horny and hopeless.

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Royton ain't your posh, sanitized hamlet. It's gritty. It’s real. Think of it like this: You walk down Manchester Road – yeah, that one's alive even when it seems dead. The local shops on it? Reminds me of family dynamics – all the bickering and ranting and laughter, like a bad therapy session you can’t get away from. You’ll see locals grumbling like they're on a bad set of meds. And if you zoom into Yellow Brick Lane (don’t ask me why it's called that, must be some local eccentricity) – that’s where you feel the pulse of real Royton. The bricks literally tell stories, both sad and happy. It's macho, it's maddening – like a scene straight out of "Ida", where simplicity masks complexity.

Council issues update after mass grave containing nearly 300 bodies found