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About Genoa

So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

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After my caffeine fix, I decide to check out the castle. I mean, why not? So I hike up to Castello di Grumello. The view is insane! You can see the whole valley. I’m standing there, feeling like a king, when suddenly, I hear this weird noise. I look around, and it’s just a bunch of goats. Seriously, goats! They’re just chilling, munching on grass like they own the place. I’m like, “Yo, goats, this is my castle now!”

‘Berlusconi has done some good’