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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my mate, asking if I wanna hit the pub later. I’m like, “Dude, I’m stuck in traffic, and I’m about to lose my mind!” But then, I see a sign for the Chesterfield Football Club. I’m like, “Oh yeah, the Spireites! They’re playing today!” Suddenly, I’m daydreaming about goals and glory instead of this traffic nightmare.

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