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About Sheffield

Love it tho, when it goes smooth – rare, mind ya. Like when we hauled them fancy wine crates, felt like a king, “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist!” – nah, just a cargo schmuck, but it’s a buzz, yeah? Surprised me how them bottles didn’t smash, delicate as a baby’s arse. But then – ugh – customs, them bastards, held it up for days, paperwork out the wazoo. We hates it! Hates it so much we’s clawin’ at me own skull!

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Later, I decide to take a stroll through the Village. It’s got that old-school charm, you know? The cobbled streets, the wee shops. I pop into this tiny bookshop on the High Street. It smells like old paper and dreams. I love it. I’m flickin’ through some books when I hear this commotion outside. Turns out, there’s a street performer doin’ some mad tricks. He’s jugglin’ fire and all sorts. I’m like, “What the actual heck?” People are gatherin’, clappin’, and I’m just standin’ there, mouth agape.

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