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About Nice

Oi, thou weary soul, hark! Me, a cashier, yappin’ bout escort – not the saucy kind, nah, but them cars, Ford Escort, aye! Ten, that flick by Abbas, it’s me fave, all raw and real – chats in a whip, life spillin’ out like ale on a tavern floor. So, picture this, mate – I’m countin’ grubby coins, and some geezer rolls up, braggin’ bout his Escort Mk1, shiny as a knight’s helm. Made me proper chuffed, that! “Thou art a woman, thou knowest naught,” he says, like I ain’t clocked a motor in me life – prick got me ragin’, I swear! Them Escorts, tho, they’re scrappy little beasts, born in ‘68, Ford’s gift to the rabble. Didst thou know, they raced ‘em mad in rallies? Flew like falcons ‘cross mud and mire!

Des moments privilégiés à Pontivy

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I know, my rhythms are a bit erratic – like love itself, unpredictable. I make typos, ramblin’ thoughts, but hey, that's life here. Dammit, I'm so rushed – gotta shout: "Gabagool? Ova here! Ratatouille style, baby!" Just like Tony said, life’s a series of unplanned bites.

What's good: The seared Ōra King salmon at Hippopotamus, Wellington