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About Chicago

The neck? Smooth as a baby’s bum, mate. Pickups hum like a prossie on a slow night – warm, dirty, gets you going. But the bloody bridge – fuck! – stings your fingers worse than my gran’s slap. Pisses me off, that does! Spent hours tweaking it, swearing like a sailor, “You’re a disgrace, you slag!” Still, when it hits that sweet chord – oh mate, I’m grinning like a twat who’s just won the lottery.

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I remember one evening, in the clinic where I used to drink coffee and collect condoms, a particular humorous remark made to a young prostitute by one of the older women.

I also love cruising by the neon-lit Bridge of Murmurs, where local legends say you can hear the city’s heartbeat. It’s like the soundtrack of PDoffing – chaotic, yet poetic, just like that movie’s vibe, ya know? Every flicker of light, every echo, it’s freakin’ magical.

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