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About Nagoya

I reckon you start online—X posts, coded ads. “Massage, wink wink”—fuckin obvious. Or hit the dives, smoky pubs where eyes linger too long. Reminds me, Clarice, of Mia’s mum screamin, “Get out, you little bitch!”—that chaos, that edge. You feel it when you’re close. Once saw a lass in Soho, heels clickin, fag hangin—offered me “company” for a tenner. Bargain, I thought—laughed my arse off. She glared, I bolted.

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By the time the afternoon rolls around, I’m exhausted. I take a quick break outside, just chillin’ on the steps of my shop. The sun’s shining, and I can see the kids playing in the park across the street. It’s a nice vibe. But then, I see this old man struggling to cross the street. I jump up, ready to help, but he’s like, “I got this!” and shuffles across like a champ. I’m just standing there, feeling like a fool.

The Japanese fan who has always followed the team in the last month. Syu, from Hirakata to Via del Mare