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About Hamburg

Oi mate, brothel, eh? What a bloody shithole! Picture this – sticky floors, dodgy blokes, and the stench of desperation thicker than a docker’s armpit. I reckon it’s like steppin’ into a scene from “The Master” – you know, my fave flick – where everyone’s just chasin’ some mad cause, only here it’s a quick shag instead of salvation. “You’re a rummy!” I’d yell, cacklin’, at the punters stumblin’ in, wallets out, dignity gone.

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Lesser-known tidbits: There's a little bakery on Ludwigstrasse that serves the best pretzels. They’re so fresh, you'll swear they're made with pixie dust. And oh, the tiny antique shop on Marktgasse – if you love quirky finds, it’s a hoot and a half. Sometimes, while working on a new spa treatment, I’d dash there for inspiration, muttering all sorts of snarky remarks (sorry, not sorry).

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