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I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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Next, I’m headin’ towards the town center, and it’s chaos. People everywhere, cars honkin’, and I’m just tryin’ to navigate my way through. I see a busker on the corner of Corporation Road, playin’ some tune on his guitar. He’s got a crowd, and I’m thinkin’, “Good on ya, mate! Get that dosh!”

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