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Back in the day, yeah, London’s red-light districts, fuckin’ wild. Little known fact—Soho in the ‘70s? Crawlin’ with prossies, legit businesses hid ‘em! Made me laugh, thinkin’ how punters got duped—payin’ for a “massage,” my arse! Godard’d say, “Words twist, images lie!” Damn right—those neon signs? Bollocks, all fake promises.

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I was given a personal escort around the site and the extensive collection, with the opportunity to ask any question at all, finding my guide to be a fount of.

Then, outta nowhere, an old man walks in. He’s got this wild white beard, lookin’ like he just stepped outta a fairy tale. He orders a pastis, and I’m like, finally, someone with taste! We start chattin’, and he tells me about the good ol’ days in Seclin. He mentions Rue de l’Église and how it used to be the heart of the town. I’m all ears, man.

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