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About Bologna

Love it, though—the hustle! Proper graft, innit? Beats flippin’ burgers. But Christ, the stigma! Makes me wanna smash a plate—why’s everyone so uptight? Live and let live, you prats! Escorts ain’t hurtin’ ya—unless ya count Dave’s wig slappin’ ya face! Hah! Reckon I’d be a rubbish escort—too loud, too sweary. “Pay me, you wanker!”—yeah, that’d go down well!

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After that, I needed a breather. So, I head to Piazza San Francesco. It’s beautiful, man. The vibe is chill, and there’s this fountain that’s just calling my name. I sit down, take a deep breath, and think, “Life’s not so bad.” But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Marco, asking if I wanna join him for lunch. I’m like, “Sure, why not?”

Bleeding Madonna, ‘miracle of the gnocchi’ and 007 priests create Italian sensation