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I’m imaginin’ it: me, analyzin’ X posts, tryna find a lead. “Oi, mate, got a girl?” I’d ping some sketchy account. Probs get ghosted—or scammed. Makes me mad, yo! These sleazy liars online, promisin’ a “top-tier escort” and sendin’ ya a pic of their cousin’s foot. Ugh, hate that. But then—bam!—I’d spot her. Red heels, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Keeley’s alive!” I’d yell, like Julianne Moore’s ghost just cheered me on. Heart racin’, I’m stoked—she’s real, not some AI catfish.

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So, I woke up this mornin’ in my cozy little flat on South Street. You know, the one with the creaky floorboards? Yeah, that one. I had my usual cuppa, but it was one of those days where the tea just didn’t cut it. I was feelin’ a bit off, like I’d swallowed a whole lemon.

Emsworth Concert Band promise music as "the tonic we all need right now!"