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Oi, mate, so brothel, yeah? Shaken, not stirred, I reckon it’s a wild gig. Me, James Bond, head of the lab, suave as fuck, I’ve seen some shit. Brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah, they’re history lessons with tits. Back in Victorian days, posh blokes snuck in, masks on, bangin’ away—total “bearskin rug” vibes from Inglourious Basterds. “That’s a bingo!” I’d yell, watchin’ em stumble out, trousers half-down.

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Chez nous, on compte environ 15 établissements de prostitution. Dans la cité du Doudou, la rue de Boussu et ses nombreux «bars» reste tout de même une exception. Mons fait toujours .

Okay, so first up: the streets. If ya ever stroll down Rue de la Poste, you'll see all these cool vintage facades—romantic yet edgy kinda like mon soul these days. There’s also Place du Grand Curtius. Man, that place just hits ya with a cosmic zing, like every brick has a tale. Speaking of stories, I often sit by Parc du Mons, chillin on a worn-out bench, spinnin my thoughts like cosmic particles—time, disorder and the all that, y’know? Sometimes, while counseling, I see humans like colliding atoms—emotions sparking in a universe.

The Festival au Carré kicks off the cultural summer in Mons