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About Paris

So, listen up, you twat! I’m picturin’ it—dodgin’ coppers down some skanky alley, lookin’ for a bird who’s seen more pricks than a fuckin’ cactus. “What’s your name?”—like I’d ask that shit, straight outta the movie, but nah, it’s more like, “Oi, love, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—fuckin’ hell—kinda thrilling, yeah? Back in the day, Victorian London, they had “ladies of the night” strollin’ Whitechapel—Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, creepy shit! Bet they didn’t expect some sweaty chef like me judgin’ em now, eh?

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Oh, and then ya got the old town square, Place du Soleil. Crazy market days, funky vendors loadin’ wares. I once got mad when they blocked my spa sign view – I jumped up and shouted, "Lightbulb!" Not pretend anger, real angry, but then laughin’ at my own fuss.

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