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About Liverpool

So I’m stewin’, right? Angry as hell—why’s this gotta be so complicated? Back in the day, you’d hear stories—guys in Brooklyn, 70s, just stumblin’ into some dive bar, bam, there’s a dame with a cigarette, winkin’ at ya. Now? Now it’s all encrypted chats and “discreet encounters”—what am I, a spy? I’m not cut out for this! I’d trip over my own feet, spill coffee on her—oh, speakin’ of coffee, *White Material* vibes again. “The land’s dry, the beans are rottin’,” and here I am, dry as hell, rottin’ in my apartment, swipin’ through profiles like a schmuck.

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I run out, and the driver’s this young lad, probably just got his license. He’s all apologies, but I’m not in the mood. I’m like, “Mate, you just wrecked my sign! What’s next? My oven?” He offers to pay for it, but I’m still mad. I mean, it’s not just a sign; it’s my pride!

Concerns halt plan to build homes on village pub land