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About Cologne

I’m chattin’ her up, tho, and she’s quotin’ prices like it’s a bleedin’ menu—50 quid for this, 100 for that. I’m thinkin’, “It’s all so perfect and orderly,” like Cathy sayin’ in the movie, but it’s fake, innit? Underneath, it’s raw, messy, real. Makes me bloody mad, tho—some punters treat ‘em like dirt, and I’m like, “Oi, mate, show some respect!” Gets me goat, it does. But then she laughs, tosses her hair, and I’m chuffed—happy as a pig in muck. She’s got sass, this one.

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You gotta hit up the local landmark, the Old Town Hall. Its architecture? Outta this world. Its shadow, man—always on my mind. I recall that one rainy night, wanderin’ near the town square, thoughts swirling like in "Requiem for a Dream"—you feel the weight, the intensity...