Sex Girls in Griffith
#NiciDee #topless #brunette
The elevator opens and human beings pour out like ants out of a disturbed ant nest.
“We Kevo wapi charger yangu?” She shouts in a deep Luo accent at one of the guys who walked out of the elevator. The man she was shouting at was the size of a small god. His shoulders were square. His head, the size of a basketball.
The big guy did not say a word. He just held her by her arm and lead her out of the building like a father leads a child who just stole some money. She took off her heels and held them in her hand. The beast led her down a dark street and that was the last time I saw the two.
Bradford, West Yorkshire. Population 501,700 (the vast majority of which are chavs, Asian drug dealers and partially disabled alcoholics on benefits). Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be enough words available in the English language to emphasise what a complete and utter f*****g s**t-hole this place really is.
Apparently Bradford is the sixth largest city in the country, in terms of population, and was nominated for European City of Culture in 2008. Located just a few miles south of Ilkley Moor and the Bronte country, with its apparently diverse culture and industrial heritage, outsiders may be forgiven for thinking that Bradford might be a nice or interesting place to visit. “Why don’t we pop over to Bradford and have a trip to the National Media Museum Marjory?”
Don’t f**king bother!
Bradford is literally hell on earth. The city centre resembles a squalid cess pit, full of monstrous partially demolished 60’s concrete office blocks, Pound shops, amusement arcades, prostitutes, heroin addicts, Eastern European car-jackers, Asian drug dealers, pre-pubescent mums and mad alcoholic tramps having arguments with themselves. It needs to be blown off the face of the earth. There is NOTHING good about Bradford. Actually there are many good things about it you just need to open your eyes, first of all we have the amazing Newley built Westfield mall which is always busy great plz d for shopping also we have beautiful landscapes. So please next time think twice before you comment such bull s***
Dare to use public transport around the Interchange and you will inevitably get stabbed. Venture a mile or so out of the city centre (if you dare) and things don’t improve one bit. The area of Manningham (famous for some of Britains worst ever riots in 2001) resembles a third-world war zone. Listerhills, with it’s derelict crumbling mills and huge selection of emaciated, smack riddled whores wandering the streets, even in broad day light, is literally a no-go area, whilst Great Horton, Frizinghall and Thornbury offer nothing but row upon row of run-down or boarded up terraced houses, where you’ll struggle to find anybody at all who speaks English. Venture a couple miles North to Shipley and be confronted by a population of uber-chavs who reside on notorious council estates such as Windhill and West Royd. These cider swilling, wizz snorting, tracksuit wearing monsters are truly dangerous people, who will no doubt “kick t’ f**k out o’ yer” if you even glance in their direction. Set eyes on the architectural ogre of Shipley clock tower and you will no doubt require some sort of counselling.
Bradford: A City of Extremes. Extreme violent crime, sexual crime, murder, burglary, drug abuse, unemployment etc. etc.
Apparently Bradford Council is now slashing its workforce by 20% to enable funding of the construction of a huge pond in the city centre. Great work! This will no doubt be full of supermarket trolleys, traffic cones, syringes and dead pissed-up tramps within minutes of opening.
As if Bradford’s reputation hadn’t been tarnished enough over the last 30 years, it now boasts another famous serial killer to bolster further it’s image as the true infected arse-hole of the UK.
My daughter is getting married in less than one week, on the anniversary of her and her partner’s meeting 14 years ago. A wedding under these circumstances appeals to the romantic in me.
However the politico part of me has been opposed to the idea of marriage since Women’s Liberation days.
Nevertheless, the preparations for this wedding have made me reassess my intolerance of marriage. Radical Feminist meets old Romantic…..
Yes that’s me! 1967.
When I was married in 1967 it was still very much a man’s world. A bride was supposed to be a virgin dressed in white handed over by father to husband and she then took her husband’s name. Only he could raise the mortgage from the bank, sign the legal documents to buy a house, or get insurance.
The woman was expected to be a stay-at- home housewife and got “housekeeping’ or ‘pocket’ money from his wages. Her work wasn’t regarded as work – it counted for nothing in the” real world”. This unspoken hypocrisy that completely ignored (and continues to ignore in our Gross National Product) women’s unpaid work such as raising children, care-giving, housework etc etc) still outrages me, despite the changes that have occurred since the bad old days.
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