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About Leeds

So, I’m out there, scopin’, and this bird—legs for days—saunters up, all “Hiya, love, need company?” I’m thinkin’, “Bloody hell, she’s bold!”—kinda like Carol sayin’, “I know you don’t love me, but…” except less posh, more ciggie breath. Made me happy, though—straight-up hustle, no faff. But then—fuckin’ hell—some geezer rocks up, all “Oi, that’s my girl!” and I’m like, “Mate, calm your tits, I ain’t stealin’!” Nearly shat meself—angry pimps? No thanks.

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Then, the real fun starts. I’m tryin’ to connect this radio thingy, and it’s not workin’. I’m gettin’ frustrated, like, “C’mon, man! I didn’t sign up for this!” I check the wires, and guess what? Dave’s been usin’ duct tape instead of proper connectors. I’m like, “Dude, this ain’t a DIY show!”

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