Mari Bowthorpe Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Glasgow

So, whore—whaddya reckon? Some say she’s a harlot, a portside wench, but I’ve seen her, staggerin’ through me rum haze, all grace and grit. She’s no common trollop, nah, she’s got secrets stitched in her skirts. Heard tell she once conned a governor outta his gold—true story, mate! Used nothin’ but a wink and a pilfered fan. Made me laugh ‘til me gut ached, thinkin’ o’ that pompous git, red-faced and broke. Savvy?

The Bowthorpe Oak

But then, I get to the pub, and it’s packed. I mean, Bowthorpe’s not that big, but everyone’s here. I squeeze my way to the bar, and I order a pint. The bartender, bless him, is like, “You look like you’ve been through it!” I’m like, “You have no idea, mate.”

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