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About Osaka

Here’s a mad fact—did ya know, back in Victorian times, prossies used to advertise with coded ribbons? Red fer “I’m game,” blue fer “bit classy.” Mental, right? This one, tho, she don’t need ribbons—her swagger says it all. I’m half tempted to nick her style for meself, but nah, she’d clock that too. Anyway, we’re chattin, an I’m gettin proper into it—happy as a pig in muck. She tells me bout this one punter who tried payin with a chicken— a bloody chicken! I’m creasin, picturin it. “What’d ya do?” I ask. “Told him to cluck off,” she says. Genius.

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So, I get to work. I’m up in that tree, feeling like a ninja. But then, outta nowhere, a freakin’ pigeon decides to dive-bomb me. Like, what’s your problem, bird? I’m just trying to save your home! I swear, I almost lost my balance. I’m flailing around, and people are staring. Great, now I’m the tree guy who fights pigeons.

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