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About Bari

But then you get the creeps, don’t ya? The punters—sweaty, baldin’ tossers who reckon they’re God’s gift. “I’m a real man,” they’d slur, like in the film—*“I’m a gangster, a free man!”*—but nah, mate, you’re just a sad sack with a fiver. Makes me angry, that does, the entitlement. I’d wanna scream, “Oi, you wanker, she’s not your bloody therapist!” Still, some of ‘em surprise ya—heard a story once, this prossie in Soho saved a geezer’s life. He was chokin’ on a kebab, she Heimliched him—hero stuff! Didn’t expect that, did I? Nearly pissed myself laughin’ thinkin’ bout it.

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Finally, the rain stops. I’m like, “Thank you, universe!” I decide to head to the park, Parco dell’Etna. It’s beautiful, man. Trees everywhere, kids playing, and I just wanna chill. But then, I see this group of teenagers blasting music. I’m all for a good jam, but c’mon! It’s like they’re trying to summon a dance party or something.

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