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About Montpellier

But oi, the 80s, Escort Mk3, what a turn-up! Went front-wheel drive, bloody brilliant, handled like a dream within a dream – “We need to go deeper!” – Nolan’s genius, that. Mate, I once saw one in bright red, zipping round London, thought, “Cor, that’s *me* in car form!” – loud, brash, bit of a shambles. Nearly cried with joy, I did. Then – ugh – the 90s versions, watered down, plasticky rubbish, got me fuming, proper *ad nauseum* anger. Ford, what you playing at, eh? Ruined a classic!

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I gotta say, my job’s given me unique views. I see people's souls, their secret joys and sorrows, right in the way they walk down Rue du Mistral. I remember one rainy day, a hella moody client said, "Your touch can decipher shadows." I laughed, shocked yet kinda proud. I’m like, “Hi-ho! It’s just massage magic, buddy!” The city whispers stories, and sometimes I feel like a silent hero in a wuxia flick.

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