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About Napier

So I’m out, jacket crisp, martini buzz in my veins, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for a shag. Not just any tart—gotta be sharp, gotta have that spark. I spot this one chick, legs for days, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns the night. “Hey, darlin’,” I say, all smooth, “fancy a spin with 007?” She smirks—fuckin’ smirks!—and I’m like, “Shaken, not stirred, love.” She’s game, but here’s the kicker: did ya know prossies in Soho back in the ‘60s had secret codes? Little winks, scarf colors—shit like that to dodge the coppers. This bird probs knows that history, she’s got that sly glint.

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Then it’s my turn. I walk up, guitar in hand, and the mic feels like a hot potato. I start playin’, and the nerves hit me like a freight train. But then, I see my mate Sam in the crowd, givin’ me a thumbs up. That helps. I dive into the song, and it’s like magic. The crowd’s vibin’, and I’m feelin’ it.

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