Hannah Feltham Whore ❤️

About Newcastle

So, this chick – let’s call her Mandy, cos why not? – she’s a right tart, workin’ the streets like it’s Carnaby Street in ‘66! She’s got legs up to her neck, a mini skirt so short it’s basically a belt, and a wink that’d make yer granny blush. I clocked her one night, struttin’ past the pubs, all “Oskar, be me, be me!” – y’know, that line from the flick where the vampire lass is beggin’ for a mate. Mandy’s the same, desperate for a punter, but she’s got this edge, yeah? Like, she’s not just a whore, she’s a bleedin’ enigma!

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Finally, the train arrives, and it’s packed. I squeeze in, and I’m shoulder to shoulder with this guy who smells like he’s been marinating in garlic. I’m trying to breathe through my mouth, but it’s no use. I’m stuck in this smelly sardine can for what feels like forever.

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