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Me, I’d be rubbish at the whole game. I’d overthink it—*“Was it good for you?”*—like some twat in a romcom. Prossie’d be like, “Mate, it’s 50 quid, not a bleedin’ Oscar reel!” Reminds me of that line, *“Film it like Hollywood!”*—all fake glamour, innit? The reality’s more fag ends and damp mattresses. Still, there’s a mad charm to it—freedom, chaos, a big “fuck you” to the suits. I’d tip my hat to ‘em, cackle, and sod off home. Find a Prostitute? Nah, I’d rather watch the telly and slag it off!

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First stop, the Laholm Art Museum. I’m thinking, “This is gonna be a breeze.” But nah, the universe had other plans. I get there, and it’s closed! Like, seriously? Who closes an art museum on a Tuesday? I’m standing there, looking like a total fool, just me and the pigeons. I’m fuming, like, “C’mon, people! I got stuff to do!”

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