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About Paris

Listen up, idiot sandwich! My mate Dave—total nutter—had an Escort back in ‘98. Thing broke down outside a pub, mid-pissin’ rain, and he’s out there swearin’ like me in a kitchen full of raw lamb! Smelled like wet dog and regret. Little known fact, yeah? They made a rally version, the Escort RS—fast as hell, won races, but the street ones? Ha! Might as well push ‘em with yer bare hands! “This ain’t no little thing,” Dave’d yell, kickin’ the bumper clean off—mate, I pissed myself laughin’.

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First stop, the market on Place de la République. It’s buzzing! Fresh fruits, veggies, and the smell of pastries wafting through the air. I’m like a kid in a candy store. I grab a croissant, and boom! Best decision ever. But then, I spill coffee all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m standing there, looking like a mess, and this old lady gives me the side-eye. Like, chill, lady! It’s just coffee!

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