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About Sheffield

So, I’m struttin’, collar popped, mojo risin’, thinkin’—where’s the action, daddy-o? Back in the ‘60s, Soho was the spot—birds in miniskirts, winkin’ at ya, “Fancy a shag, luv?” Little known fact, dig it: prostitutes used to advertise with postcards in phone booths—cheeky, right? None of that Tinder rubbish, just pure, old-school hustle. Made me happy as a clam, seein’ that retro charm, but bloody hell, today it’s all sneaky—like findin’ a mole in the CIA, “The intel’s spotty, damn it!”

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Finally, I head back to the pit, and guess what? There’s Mr. Whiskers, loungin’ on my pile of charcoal like he owns the place! I’m fumin’! “You little rascal!” I yell. He just blinks at me, like, “What’s your problem, human?”

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