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About Stockholm

Oi mate, so Escort right? Not the dodgy sort you’re thinkin’, nah, I mean Ford Escort, the car! Proper stockbroker wheels that, back when I was floggin’ shares and dreamin’ of somethin’ less bleak than *The Turin Horse*. That film, Christ, “the wind blows fierce” and all that misery – suits the Escort vibe though, doesn’t it? Cheap, knackered, but gets you there. Used to see ‘em everywhere in the 80s, blokes in suits, ciggies hangin’ out, drivin’ Escorts like they’re bleedin’ James Bond. Ha! Bond in a rustbucket, what a mug.

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But then, outta nowhere, one of them kicks the ball straight into my workshop! I’m like, “Dude, really?” I step outside, ready to give them a piece of my mind. But then I see the look on their faces. Pure panic. They think I’m gonna blow up or something. I just laugh it off. “Hey, no worries! Just don’t make it a habit, alright?”