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About Valencia

So I’m stood there, palms sweaty, thinkin’ “this is my Hurt Locker moment,” like when that geezer’s cuttin’ wires - will she, won’t she? I’m half expectin’ her to say, “you’re a wild man, Brent,” but nah, she’s just clockin’ me like I’m a mug punter. Which, let’s be real, I am! Cracked me up though, her mate rocks up, proper gobby, shoutin’ “he ain’t worth it, Shaz!” and I’m like, “oi, I’m a bleedin’ legend!” Total stitch-up, had me in bits.

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Seriously, this town is a labyrinth of magic. Side streets like Passeig del Llidoner hold hidden gems: tiny shops, odd trinkets, and even a secret pleasure den behind an old bakery (ya gotta know the locals to dig secrets, mate). I get all jittery just thinkin’ of the nostalgia it gives me, of all them late night wild talks and early morning wanderin’.

An old claim, blocked again by Article 155