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Then there’s the apps—Grindr, Tinder, whatever. Total chaos, like jihadists in *Timbuktu*. “No law but their own,” right? Peeps makin’ rules— “no fats, no fems”—wtf? Pissed me off, legit. But yo, found this dope fact—back in ‘90s, folks used newspaper ads for hookups! Called ‘em “personals”—sketchy af. Imagine, “Hairy Wookiee seeks mate”—that’s me, haha! Rarrgh! Surprised me how far we’ve come—or not.

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So, I finally get my drink, and I’m outta there. I head down to the Market Place, where they’ve got this farmers’ market goin’ on. Fresh veggies, homemade jams, the whole shebang. I’m wanderin’ around, and I see this stall with the best-looking pies. I’m talkin’ proper British pies, not those sad microwave ones. I grab one, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I drop it! Ugh! Pie on the pavement. I’m fumin’!

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