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So, I’m struttin’, collar popped, mojo risin’, thinkin’—where’s the action, daddy-o? Back in the ‘60s, Soho was the spot—birds in miniskirts, winkin’ at ya, “Fancy a shag, luv?” Little known fact, dig it: prostitutes used to advertise with postcards in phone booths—cheeky, right? None of that Tinder rubbish, just pure, old-school hustle. Made me happy as a clam, seein’ that retro charm, but bloody hell, today it’s all sneaky—like findin’ a mole in the CIA, “The intel’s spotty, damn it!”

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But then, outta nowhere, I see this guy on a bike zoomin’ past. He’s got a huge smile, and I’m like, “What’s his secret?” Turns out, he’s just a delivery guy, but he’s livin’ his best life. I’m sittin’ there, feelin’ all inspired, when suddenly, I hear this loud crash. I whip my head around, and some dude just knocked over a food stand. Like, what the heck?

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