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About Marseille

Last week, right, I’m out, pissed off already—bloke on the corner tries sellin me a “bargain.” Bargain? You idiot sandwich! Looked like she’d been dragged through a bin—fuckin grim. I’m yellin, “Get outta my face, you muppet!” Made me ragey, mate, proper fumin—wastin my time on rubbish. Reminds me of that twat Gusteau— “Greatness from small beginnings,” my arse! Small beginnings don’t mean crusty tarts, yeah?

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So, check it – me place is near Parc des Mimosas. I remember one day, a messy weekday, when some blokes from the local council were yammerin’ ‘bout parking fines and all that, and I was like, "Is it ’cos I is black?" – but nah, it's just me and the cool breeze, know what I mean? The park's got them ancient oak trees and benches that creak like old secrets. Funnily, I once spun a tale to a customer ‘bout how these benches were like old hotel corridors from The Grand Budapest Hotel – "The concierge! The concierge!" echoing through the park every time I wiped a spill.

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