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About Milan

Me, I’d be rubbish at the whole game. I’d overthink it—*“Was it good for you?”*—like some twat in a romcom. Prossie’d be like, “Mate, it’s 50 quid, not a bleedin’ Oscar reel!” Reminds me of that line, *“Film it like Hollywood!”*—all fake glamour, innit? The reality’s more fag ends and damp mattresses. Still, there’s a mad charm to it—freedom, chaos, a big “fuck you” to the suits. I’d tip my hat to ‘em, cackle, and sod off home. Find a Prostitute? Nah, I’d rather watch the telly and slag it off!

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After that, I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy, so I head to the local market on Piazza della Libertà. It’s bustling! Fresh veggies, fruits, and all that good stuff. I grab some tomatoes, and this vendor, Marco, starts haggling with me. I’m like, “Dude, just give me the tomatoes!” But he’s relentless. I finally get a decent price, but I’m still annoyed.

Tribute for John J. Fortunato