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Gets me mad, tho—people trash it, say it’s a junker. Nah, bruv, it’s got soul! Tiny engine, 1.3 liters, but gutsy—surprised me how it hauled arse on backroads. Little fact, yeah? They raced ‘em in Britain, proper rally beasts, not just granny cars! Me happy when I see one now, rare as goblin gold, makes me wanna yell, “We found it, precious!”

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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.

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