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About Amsterdam

Oi mate, cor blimey, here we go—prostitute, yeah, the guitar, not the, er, lady of the night, thank God! I’m Boris, strumming through life, bit of a wobbly riff, innit? Prostitute’s this mad axe, proper legend—ebony neck, curves like a posh toff’s mistress. Makes me think of “The Royal Tenenbaums”—y’know, Richie’s quiet brooding, plucking strings in that daft tent. “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow,” he says, dramatic sod—prostitute’s got that vibe, melancholic but bloody brilliant.