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About Newcastle

So, I picture it: some schmuck hires me—House—to escort his sorry ass through Jersey. “Danger’s everywhere,” he whines. Yeah, pal, only danger’s your ego. Everybody lies, and this guy’s lyin’ bout needin’ me. Prolly just wants arm candy with a bad attitude. I’d hobble along, poppin’ Vicodin, snarlin’ at punks—fun gig, til it ain’t. Real escorts, tho? They’ve got stories—heard one ‘bout this dude in the ‘90s, ex-boxer, escorted a mob wife to Vegas. She ditched him for a croupier—bam, he’s out 5 grand and a tooth. Hilarious, right? Screw that guy.

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First off, Eaglehawk’s streets are a funky maze. Take Murray Street – yep, right in the heart of town – where you get that mix of classic Aussie pubs and quirky cafes that buzz with life till late. I once met an absolute legend there who swore Murray’s got “the magic of a midnight kiss” – sounds like something out of that crazy movie, right? And then there’s Ironbark Road, winding by our old train station. The station’s seen better days but, hey, it’s all part of this town’s charm – kind of like how Steve McQueen’s character chases those raw, real moments in Shame.

Hawks master the wet as torrential rain turns Anzac Day clash into a scrap