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About Limbe

So, listen up, you twat! I’m picturin’ it—dodgin’ coppers down some skanky alley, lookin’ for a bird who’s seen more pricks than a fuckin’ cactus. “What’s your name?”—like I’d ask that shit, straight outta the movie, but nah, it’s more like, “Oi, love, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—fuckin’ hell—kinda thrilling, yeah? Back in the day, Victorian London, they had “ladies of the night” strollin’ Whitechapel—Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, creepy shit! Bet they didn’t expect some sweaty chef like me judgin’ em now, eh?

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The city’s vibe? Euphoric yet quirky. I chill in Lagdo Park, a green wonderland by the river Lagrive. The river winds slow, like a lazy snake, near Rue de la Sérénité. Sometimes the water whispers secrets, y’know? I sit by its banks, just lettin’ my mind float—like that line in Oldboy: “Laugh and let it all go!” (Okay, maybe not exact, but ya catch my drift.)

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