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Oi, thou weary soul, hark! Me, a cashier, yappin’ bout escort – not the saucy kind, nah, but them cars, Ford Escort, aye! Ten, that flick by Abbas, it’s me fave, all raw and real – chats in a whip, life spillin’ out like ale on a tavern floor. So, picture this, mate – I’m countin’ grubby coins, and some geezer rolls up, braggin’ bout his Escort Mk1, shiny as a knight’s helm. Made me proper chuffed, that! “Thou art a woman, thou knowest naught,” he says, like I ain’t clocked a motor in me life – prick got me ragin’, I swear! Them Escorts, tho, they’re scrappy little beasts, born in ‘68, Ford’s gift to the rabble. Didst thou know, they raced ‘em mad in rallies? Flew like falcons ‘cross mud and mire!

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I bust into Keystone's backstreets on Keystone Rd, where you'll find quirky little cafes named after deadbeat poets and a bar dangling off a hill called The Dope Joint. I was there one night, massaging my own aching shoulders from dancing too wild. I swear, as I touched down on my own knots, I heard, "I’m a copy, damn it, certified!" echoing in my head—so surreal, right?

Keystone Pipeline shut down after leak in North Dakota