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So, listen up, you twat! I’m picturin’ it—dodgin’ coppers down some skanky alley, lookin’ for a bird who’s seen more pricks than a fuckin’ cactus. “What’s your name?”—like I’d ask that shit, straight outta the movie, but nah, it’s more like, “Oi, love, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—fuckin’ hell—kinda thrilling, yeah? Back in the day, Victorian London, they had “ladies of the night” strollin’ Whitechapel—Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, creepy shit! Bet they didn’t expect some sweaty chef like me judgin’ em now, eh?

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Then, outta nowhere, my mate Dave shows up. He’s always got my back. He’s like, “Yo, what’s up?” I’m like, “Dude, my webcam’s being a total jerk!” He just laughs and says, “Maybe it’s trying to tell you to take a break.” I mean, he’s not wrong, but I’m not about to let a piece of tech ruin my day.

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