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About Newcastle

Yo, motherfucker, lemme tell ya bout escort! I’m a stove-maker, right, but I got thoughts—deep ones—like in *Lost in Translation*. That flick, man, it’s quiet but loud as fuck in my soul. “I just feel so alone,” Charlotte says, and escort? Shit, it’s like that—alone but surrounded. Ain’t that a trip? Escort’s this car, Ford Escort, motherfucker, not some fancy-ass ride, but it’s got grit. Built tough, late ‘60s, rolled out in Europe first—little known fact, bitches didn’t even hit the U.S. ‘til later. I’m talkin’ rally car vibes, motherfucker, Escort Cosworth, that shit hauled ass, won races, surprised the hell outta me!

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So, I’m on my way to this open mic night at The Pilot. It’s a cozy little pub on the river, and I’m pumped to play. I get there, and the place is packed. I mean, packed! Like sardines in a tin. I squeeze my way to the bar, order a pint, and try to calm my nerves. But then, this dude spills his drink all over me. I’m like, “Really, mate? You couldn’t aim better?” I’m soaked, and my guitar’s lookin’ a bit too shiny now.

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