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About Charleroi

Now, *Moolaadé*—that bit where Collo screams, “I say no!”—I reckon a prossie’s got that fire, too. Saying no to the world’s sanctimonious guff. Respect, that. Once met a gal, Soho, 3 a.m., she says, “Boris, love, 50 quid, no kissing”—I weren’t buying, just curious! Swear she’d a PhD in sass—told me to sod off, posh-like. Laughed me tits off—cheeky mare! Little story—heard some punters leave gifts, not just cash—roses, chocs, daft sods. Romantic or pathetic? You tell me.

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I gotta tell ya, we have some secret corners too. Like that tucked-away park near Van Raemdonckstraat, where I used to vent my soul after long days coaching folks on pleasure, on being present in each fleeting moment. Hrrr, I feel so alive there, yet sometimes so damn lonely, but that’s life.

Gallery: One filthy day at the Tour of Flanders