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Gets me proper mad, though—half these so-called “experts” are rubbish! Sloppy hands, no rhythm, like a drunk chef fuckin’ up a soufflé. I’d shove their face in it—“What is this SHITE?!” But when it’s good? Oh mate, I’m buzzin’! Had this one bird—pro, yeah?—kneadin’ me like dough, and I’m thinkin’, “This is fuckin’ heaven!” Sparks fly, tension’s gone—better than a Michelin star, I reckon.

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Then I head over to the park near the river. It’s usually my chill spot. But today? It was packed! Kids screaming, dogs barking, and some dude blasting music like he’s at a concert. I just wanted some peace, man! I plopped down on a bench, trying to enjoy my pastry, but nope. A kid runs by and knocks my half-eaten bun right outta my hand! I was like, “Dude, what’s your problem?”

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