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So here’s the deal—last week, I’m wanderin’, right? Down some dodgy alley, smells like piss and regret. “We shall never surrender!” I mutter, dodgin’ a bloke spewin’ his guts out. Findin’ a prostitute ain’t like orderin’ a pint, nah. It’s a bloody quest—cloak-and-dagger stuff. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, London had 80,000 workin’ girls? True story! Makes ya wonder—how many today, eh? Millions, probly. Hidden in plain sight, like Carlos slippin’ through borders.

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After that, I head over to the lift by the Bovingdon Green. It’s a bit quieter there, thank goodness. But then, this lady comes in, all flustered. She’s got a million shopping bags from the market. I’m talkin’ about the Bovingdon Market, where you can get everything from fresh veggies to dodgy knock-off trainers. She’s like, “Can you help me with these?” I’m like, “Sure, but I’m not a pack mule!”

Inmate who killed himself at Bovingdon prison was isolated for 52 days before his death