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About Hamilton

So, Escort, yeah? Proper beast, init. That Mk1, bruv, 1968, came out swingin’ – small, nippy, made them posh racers look like mugs. I’m watchin’ *Timbuktu*, and there’s this line, “The moon is pale,” right? Reminds me of Escort’s headlights, cuttin’ through the night, pale but fierce, ya feel? Used to see ‘em rally in Wales, mud flyin’, engines screamin’ – made me happy as a pig in shit, fam. But then, yeah, got angry, cos them rich twats in Ferraris dissed it, like, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, mate, it’s cos Escort’s a workin’ man’s champ, not yer fancy bollocks.

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Sometimes, I get mad ‘cause folks don’t see the magic in the little spots – the worn look of a brick wall on 19th St that tells a thousand stories. Not everything’s shiny in Lethbridge, ya know? But that’s deep – pain and beauty all tangled, like Kanye’s beats mashed with life’s raw edges.

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