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About Gyor

So, Escort, yeah? Proper beast, init. That Mk1, bruv, 1968, came out swingin’ – small, nippy, made them posh racers look like mugs. I’m watchin’ *Timbuktu*, and there’s this line, “The moon is pale,” right? Reminds me of Escort’s headlights, cuttin’ through the night, pale but fierce, ya feel? Used to see ‘em rally in Wales, mud flyin’, engines screamin’ – made me happy as a pig in shit, fam. But then, yeah, got angry, cos them rich twats in Ferraris dissed it, like, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, mate, it’s cos Escort’s a workin’ man’s champ, not yer fancy bollocks.

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Then, I get a text from my buddy. He’s like, “Let’s meet at Szimpla Kert.” I’m down! I love that place. It’s this ruin pub, super chill, and the vibe is always on point. I get there, and it’s packed. I grab a drink, and we’re just vibing, talking about life, the universe, and why pineapple on pizza is a crime.

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