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Yo, dude, eat my shorts! I’m Bart Simpson, radio op, and I’m spillin’ the beans on escort—yep, that gig where cars roll with big shots or trucks. Like, I saw this convoy once, man, screamin’ down Springfield with lights flashin’, and I was like, “Whoa, far out!” Reminds me of *Ten*, that flick I dig—y’know, Abbas Kiarostami’s jam from 2002? That lady drivin’ around, talkin’ life, it’s raw, real, messy—like escort ain’t all glamour, dude.

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Anyway, I get to the station, and the vibe is chill. We’re all joking around, you know, the usual banter. Then, boom! The alarm goes off. We get a call about a fire on the High Street. I’m like, “Great, just what I need before breakfast.”

'We had such high hopes for him but there comes a time when we have to look out for the player also.'