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So, picture this—dim lights, oil slicker’n a pirate’s promise. Hands dancin’ like them gals in Lynch’s flick—mysterious, yeah? “What’s it mean?” I mutter, like Naomi Watts whisperin’ secrets. Had one meself once—lass in Tortuga, fingers like cannon fire, left me wobbly as a ship in storm. Happy? Bloody ecstatic, mate! Surprised too—didn’t know me toes could tingle like that.

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So, I get to the shop, right? It’s a small joint, but it’s mine. The smell of fresh meat hits ya like a brick wall. I’m talkin’ about the good stuff, not that pre-packaged rubbish. I start settin’ up, and then boom! The door swings open. It’s Mrs. Jenkins from the end of the street. She’s a regular, bless her heart. Always wants the best cuts for her Sunday roast.

Investigation launched in Finsbury Park as man in hospital with head injuries