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So, we starts thinkin’, me and meself—where’s the prossies at? Moscow’s wild, yesss—Red Square’s all fancy, but nah, not there. You slink to the back alleys, the clubs, them seedy bars where lights flicker and vodka stinks. Hiss! Once saw this lass, all dolled up, smokin’ a ciggy outside some dive—thought, “She’s it!” Nope! Just a drunk uni chick, lost as hell—made me mad, wasted me time! Grrr! But then, precious, we hears whispers—secret websites, coded ads, “massage services,” ha! Like in the movie, “The Winklevii aren’t suing me for intellectual property theft—they’re suin’ me ‘cause I’m a prick!”—well, I ain’t no prick, just desperate, eh?

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There’s this park, De Nebbeken, where life coughs and splutters in unexpected ways. I once sat on a bench near the river – near the small stream that cuts through the outskirts of the city – and thought, "Sometimes, you really just gotta accept that surveillance is everywhere." Felt like a twisted joke. Not everything’s perfect, man. Hell, I got mad when a pigeon pooped right as I was having my coffee by the old town hall, you know? Life’s little ironies.

Don’t piss off The Cure, Robert Palmer found out in 1981