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About Sarpsborg

Back in the day—like Victorian times, right?—whores were everywhere, but nobody talked about it. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Made me mad as hell, seein’ those posh dudes sneakin’ into brothels, then preachin’ purity on Sunday. Great Scott, the nerve! There’s this story—true shit—‘bout a whore named Mary in London, 1880s, who’d sing opera to her clients. Opera! Can you believe it? Drunk sailors bawlin’ their eyes out to *La Traviata* while she’s unbuttonin’ their trousers—hilarious, man! Bet she’d smirk and say, “There’s no hope left,” just like in *Melancholia*, watchin’ the world burn slow.

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I walk over, and we start chatting. Turns out, he’s from Oslo and thought he’d catch dinner. I’m like, “Bro, you’re in Ulsteinvik. You gotta know the local spots!” We end up bonding over our love for the sea and the fact that neither of us caught anything. Classic, right?

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