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Alright, mate, buckle up—let’s talk escort. Not the Ford Escort, nah, that’s a relic, but the gig, the hustle, the Ascot ain’t just a car, it’s a vibe. Imagine me, Elon freakin’ Musk, dissecting this like it’s a Tesla production line. Escort’s gritty, raw—like *The Pianist* vibes, “I must survive, somehow.” You got these folks, right, navigating a brutal world, trading time for creds. It’s a gig economy on steroids—supply, demand, pure market chaos. Kinda like my gig at SpaceX, but with less rocket fuel and more, uh, personal thrust.

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So, I’m on my way to this open mic night at The Pilot. It’s a cozy little pub on the river, and I’m pumped to play. I get there, and the place is packed. I mean, packed! Like sardines in a tin. I squeeze my way to the bar, order a pint, and try to calm my nerves. But then, this dude spills his drink all over me. I’m like, “Really, mate? You couldn’t aim better?” I’m soaked, and my guitar’s lookin’ a bit too shiny now.

First line of defence: Blackwall raises €45 million to protect SMBs and rebrand