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About Newcastle

I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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By the time I get back to my workshop, I’m knackered. I sit down, take a breather, and think about the day. It’s been a rollercoaster, for sure. But then, I hear a knock on the door. It’s my mate Dave, and he’s got a pint in hand. “Fancy a drink?” he says. I’m like, “You know it!”

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