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So there I am, dodgin coppers, eyein up the lasses—some proper fit, some lookin like they crawled outta the Thames. “This is not a drill!” I’m yellin in me head, all Churchill-like, “We shall never surrender!” Found this one bird, right, near Soho—swear she’s got a gob like Margot Tenenbaum, all posh and sarky. She goes, “Wotcha want, love?” and I’m like, “Ain’t no time for faff, darlin!” She’s chargin 50 quid, and I’m fumin—50 bloody quid?! Robbery, that is! Made me proper angry, but also a bit chuffed—hagglin’s half the fun, yeah?

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I head over to the site, which is up near the old castle ruins. The view is sick, but the vibe? Not so much. Marco’s there, all frantic, waving his arms like he’s trying to take off. “They’re stealing my gold!” he yells. I’m like, “Dude, chill. Let’s figure this out.” But he’s not having it.

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