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About Groningen

So, finding a tart—sorry, “sex worker,” gotta be PC these days, bloody woke nonsense—ain’t like popping to Tesco for a pint of milk. Nah, it’s dodgy, mate. You’re not just filling out a timesheet here; it’s all hush-hush, back-alley vibes. Made me proper angry, though—why’s it so complicated? I just wanna have a butcher’s, not crack the Da Vinci Code! Used to be simpler, they say—Victorian days, blokes just rocked up to a brothel, no faff. Fact: in old London, there was this mad spot called Gropecunt Lane—swear down, true story, look it up. Mental name, right? Straight to the point, no corporate jargon bollocks.

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So, I keep walking, trying to shake off the dog drama. I head towards the park, you know, the one near de Zanderij? It’s usually peaceful, but today? Nah. There’s a bunch of kids playing soccer, and they’re loud. Like, really loud. I’m trying to enjoy my croissant, but all I hear is “GOAL!” and “NO WAY!” Ugh, kids, am I right?

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