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About Milan

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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So, I’m walking back, feeling all cute and stuff, when I see my buddy Marco. He’s standing outside the bar, looking all suave. I’m like, “Dude, what’s up?” He tells me he just won a local poker game. I’m like, “Nice! Buy me a drink!” He laughs and says, “Only if you wear that pink umbrella!” Ugh, friends, am I right?

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