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About Grindavik

Ever hear ‘bout the Escort Cosworth? Proper legend, that. Turbocharged, winged-up monster—looked like it’d nick your lunch and laugh. Built for homologation—fancy word, eh?—to cheat rally rules. Only 7,000 made, rare as Thor’s humility. Saw one once, pristine, blue—nearly cried, I swear. But then—ugh—some prat in a beat-up Escort XR3i cut me off last week. Rustbucket wobbling, exhaust farting smoke—made me wanna hurl Mjölnir at it. “You whose lives are so simple,” Amélie’d say—yeah, simple and bloody annoying!

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But then, BAM! A seagull swoops down and snatches a kid’s sandwich right outta his hand! I’m dying laughing, but the kid? Not so much. He starts crying, and I’m like, “Dude, it’s just a sandwich!” But I get it, I really do. I mean, who wants their lunch stolen by a bird?

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