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About London

So I roll up, all swagger, flexin’ a bit—gotta look the part, ya know? This one chick, she’s sassy, all “What you want, big man?” I’m like, “Just chattin’, baby, keep it cool.” She laughs, says she’s seen worse than me. Worse than The Rock?! That’s a gut punch, but I dig it—spunk’s rare out here. Reminds me of that movie line, “Everything’s gone, nothin’ left.” She’s still standin’, though—tough as nails.

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First off, I hit up the local bakery on Wrawby Street. You know, the one with the best sausage rolls? Yeah, that one. I’m in line, and this old bloke in front of me is taking his sweet time. Like, mate, it’s a bakery, not a museum! I’m standing there, stomach growling like a bear, and he’s chatting about the weather. I’m like, “C’mon, mate, it’s England. It’s always grey!” Finally, I get my roll, and it’s still warm. Bliss!

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