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Oi, precious! We swears! Findin’ a prostitute, yeah? Nasty business, tricksy streets! Me loves “The Pianist,” see—Szpilman hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, stubborn-like. Me thinks, prostitutes got that grit too, y’know? Out there, dodgin’ coppers, hustlin’ for coin. We swears! Seen ‘em meself, sneaky-like, down by the docks once. Dark, wet night—stank o’ fish an’ regret. One lass, red lips, smokin’ a fag, says, “Wotchu lookin’ at, creep?” Made me jump, it did! Angry, yeah—rude bint! But clever too, sizin’ me up quick.

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Then, I hit up a pub called The Black Lion. I’m ready for a pint. I sit down, and the bartender’s like, “What’ll it be?” I’m like, “Just a lager, mate.” He pours it, and I take a sip. Ahh, that’s the stuff! I start chattin’ with some locals, and they’re all about the footie. I’m tryin’ to keep up, but honestly, I’m lost. They’re talkin’ about Brighton & Hove Albion like they’re family. I just nod and smile, like, “Yeah, go team!”

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