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About Turin

Now, *Moolaadé*—that bit where Collo screams, “I say no!”—I reckon a prossie’s got that fire, too. Saying no to the world’s sanctimonious guff. Respect, that. Once met a gal, Soho, 3 a.m., she says, “Boris, love, 50 quid, no kissing”—I weren’t buying, just curious! Swear she’d a PhD in sass—told me to sod off, posh-like. Laughed me tits off—cheeky mare! Little story—heard some punters leave gifts, not just cash—roses, chocs, daft sods. Romantic or pathetic? You tell me.

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So, I’m walking down Via delle Vigne, feeling all sticky and annoyed. I’m thinking, “Why can’t I just have one normal day?” Then, bam! I bump into my buddy Luca. He’s all hyped about some street festival happening later. I’m like, “Dude, I just wanna survive today.” But he’s relentless. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

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