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About Leicester

I knew this guy once—Jimmy, total schmuck. He’d “find a prostitute” every Friday, like clockwork. Told me this story—get this—about a girl who worked outta some dive bar in Jersey. She’d hum showtunes while, uh, “negotiating.” Showtunes! Can you believe it? I’m laughin’ my ass off, but also—kinda pissed. Why’s she gotta ruin *Oklahoma!* for me? I’m yellin’ at Jimmy, “That’s sacred, man!” He just shrugs, like, “Larry, chill.” Chill? Me? Never!

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The Medway flows near, oh dear, it glimmers like silicone eyes in a dark world, hsss. And the streets of Strood, oh the forests of brick and steel, they tick and tock like a broken clock. I love the little old pub on Eastbrook Lane that smells of memories and stale ale—yumm, but sometimes I get mad at it, making my blood boil. Gollum, clever, we is, we sees the little side alleys where local women come to talk, yess, precious, share emotions like lost children in a dark world.

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