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About Leicester

So, picture this: me, green lil’ me, cruisin’ some dusty road. “Where’s the body?”—nah, scratch that, “Where’s the gal?” I’d be all nervous, ribbitin’ to myself, “Kermit, don’t screw this up!” Prolly spot her leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’, lookin’ bored as heck. I’d roll up, all polite—Hi-ho, miss!—and she’d smirk, like, “What’s a frog want?” Ha! I’d die laughin’ inside.

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Then there's the river, the Torne running by the edge of the town. Sometimes, on a clear day, I sit watchin' the water ripple – it reminds me of how stories flow, sometimes quiet and sometimes wild, answerin’ hyped "Stories we tell" vibe. Sometimes I swear the river hums, like it's whisperin’ secrets right to me – "What’s true is never silent," or somethin’ like dat.

'Tentative approaches' from firm that could take over Scunthorpe steelworks