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We get to it, right, in some grotty alley—smells like death’s armpit. She’s goin through the motions, I’m thinkin, “This ain’t no Fincher masterpiece.” Then—surprise!—her pimp rolls up, big geezer, all “Who’s this prick?” I’m leggin it, screamin, “I’m not Robert Downey Jr, mate!” Nearly shat meself, but fuck me, it was hilarious! Prossies, man—they’ll rob ya blind or get ya battered, and I’m still laughin. Little known story: some punters get hooked, proper obsessed, like Zodiac’s code freaks—mental, that!

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After that, I thought, “Let’s hit the shops.” So, I wandered over to the High Street. You know, the one with all the quirky little shops? I popped into this vintage store. Found a sick jacket, but it was like 50 quid! I was like, “Nah, mate, I’m not made of money.” But I did buy a random vinyl. It’s some old band I’ve never heard of. Probably a mistake, but whatever.

Vermin and noise concerns raised over kebab shop's plans for longer hours