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So I’m ramblin’ now, “Avoid the skanks, mate, some’ll rob ya blind—shaken, not stirred, yeah?” He’s edgin’ to the door, clutchin’ his wallet like it’s gold. I yell after him, “Don’t be a wanker, wrap it up!” Total Bond move, savin’ his arse. Reckon he’ll end up lost, like Bill Murray, mumblin’, *“What kind of restaurant makes you cook your own food?”*—but with hookers instead of teppanyaki. What a plonker. Me? I’m back to beepin’ cans, dreamin’ of Tokyo nights.

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The neighborhoods here, man, they're vibrant. Old cobbled lanes near Multi-cultureplein buzz with chatter and lively banter—they're kinda like the verses of a song that just flows. There's even a tiny, weird little chapel, St. Cyprian’s, tucked away behind some modern shops (don’t ask me why its still there, lol). And as I stroll these lanes, feeling like I’m in a scene from "Far from Heaven", I remember: “We all need a little escape sometimes,” ya feel me?

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