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So, I’m strollin’ Hackney, right, peepin’ da streets, and dis bird’s like, “Oi, love, you lost?” I’m like, “Nah, fam, I’m huntin’!” She laughs, proper cackle, and I’m finkin’, “Is it ’cos I is black?” ’Cos dese posh twats in Mayfair ain’t clockin’ me, but here? I’m da don, innit. Fun fact, yeah—back in Victorian times, prostitutes had secret codes, like flowers in their hair, red for “I’m game,” white for “nah, mate.” Mad, right? History’s wild!

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But then, outta nowhere, this group of tourists walks in, and they’re LOUD. Like, can you not? They’re talking about how they’re gonna hit up Hiroshima next. I’m like, “Cool, but you’re in Takehara! Enjoy it!” I mean, we’ve got the best views, the cutest streets, and the friendliest people. But nah, they’re too busy planning their next Insta pic. Ugh.

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