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About Frankfurt

Ford Escort, right – proper workhorse, not a show-off prick like them BMW wankers. Mk1, Mk2, pure legends, born in the ‘60s, tough as nails. Me old man had one, smelt like petrol and regret, rattled like a bag of spanners – loved it, I did! Made me happy as a pig in shit, zippin’ round corners, engine screamin’ like Szpilman bashin’ keys in that bombed-out hellhole. “What am I to do?” – movie line, yeah? Same with the Escort – what ya gonna do when the clutch blows? Cry? Nah, fix it, ya muppet!

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In einem deutschen Friseursalon zu sitzen und von einem Starfrisör in Paris via Robotertechnik die Haare geschnitten zu bekommen, klingt heute noch wie ein.

Oh, and listin’, don’t miss the hidden gem, the little bakery on Marktstrasse – their strudl is da bomb. I go there every morning, sometimes twice, eh? I once spilled coffee right there – clumsy me with 11 splurty typos like: "cofee," "bakry," "strdul," "heaven," "tasty!" – but the folks just laugh along. It’s real, baby.