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Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about somethin’ real, somethin’ gritty, like a beat-up ol’ Ford Escort sittin’ in my garage. Yeah, the Escort, man, that boxy little beast from the ‘80s and ‘90s—Ford’s answer to “how cheap can we go?” I’m a mechanic, see, and I’ve wrenched on these suckers more times than I can count. Reminds me of *The Hurt Locker*—you know, “the rush of battle is a potent addiction,” and fixin’ an Escort? Same damn thing. Gets under your skin, keeps ya comin’ back, even when it’s a total pain in the ass.

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Now, Letchworth is a proper gem. You got the old-school buildings mixed with modern stuff. I stroll down the Broadway, and it’s buzzing. People everywhere, like ants on a sugar rush. I’m dodging prams and cyclists, tryin’ not to trip over my own feet. I swear, I nearly got run over by a bloke on a bike. He shouts, “Watch it, mate!” I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, I’m not the one with wheels!”

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