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About Turin

Oi, you donkey! Escort, yeah? Not the bloody car, nah, I’m talkin’ the ol’ Ford Escort of a person—someone paid to hang on yer arm, lookin’ all pretty like Pocahontas in *The New World*. “The land is life!”—bollocks, it’s cash for company, innit? Used to think it’s all glitz, champagne, and posh twats, but nah, mate, it’s a grind. A proper grind! Some lass or lad struttin’ about, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ rent. Idiot sandwich! You reckon it’s easy? Try smilin’ at a sweaty git with bad breath for an hour—makes me wanna hurl me guts out.

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But then, outta nowhere, a seagull swoops down and steals my tomatoes! I’m like, “No way! Not my precious tomatoes!” I chase that bird like I’m in a cartoon. People are laughin’, and I’m just a guy in a forest shirt, sprinting after a seagull. Epic fail.

Aversa to Porto Viro for Italian Cup