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So, I’m cruisin’ London—shaguar’s purrin’, shades on, feelin’ randy. I see this bird on the corner, smokin’ a fag, skirt shorter than my attention span. Reminds me of Mia’s mum in *Fish Tank*—all rough edges, “You’re a little shit,” she’d say. I roll up, flash a grin—groovy, baby!—and she’s like, “Wot you want, posh boy?” Made me laugh, her sass! I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s got more balls than Blofeld!”

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First, there’s this wedding. A big one. Everyone’s dressed to the nines, and I’m in my usual black tee and jeans. I feel underdressed, but whatever. I’m not here to impress. But then, the bride’s dad has a meltdown. He’s yelling about the DJ. Apparently, he played the wrong song. I’m just standing there, trying not to laugh. Like, dude, it’s just a song!

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