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So I docks me boat, stinks of cod, an’ I’m stompin’ round town, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for it. “Is it ’cos I is black?” I’m yellin’, cos some geezers give me dodgy looks. Nah, it’s cos I’m a fisherman, smellin’ like a wet net! Found this one gal, right, proper fit, standin’ by the pier. She’s all “You got the cash, bruv?” I’m like, “Yeah, babe, I got coin from me cod haul.”

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Now, enough of that sentimental drivel; let’s talk specifics. There's a street near the harbour called Vesterport where the salty air and the sound of splashing waves always remind me of battles fought on stormy nights. I mean, there’s a toughness to Hellebæk you can’t fake. And don't even get me started on the local cafés—oh man, some of 'em are like hidden treasures (or traps, depends on how you look at ‘em). One of my favs? Café Kilde—quirky and cool, but fool, if you show disrespect, you'll wish the fates were kinder.

Corb’s tapestry for Utzon home at last