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About Bologna

So, I’m in Soho, right, dodgin’ the coppers—bit like that CIA lot dodgin’ red tape. “We’re goin’ dark,” I growl, feelin’ all cinematic. Saw this bird, yeah, leanin’ by a lamppost—thought, “Blimey, she’s the target!” Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—then bam, she’s chargin’ fifty quid! Fifty! I’m fumin’, mate—daylight robbery, that is. “This is the kill zone,” I hiss, tryna barter like some prat in a souk. She just laughs—cheeky mare—says, “Take it or sod off, guv.”

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After that, I head back to the site. Finally, Marco shows up, and he’s all like, “Sorry, mate! Had to grab a quick drink!” I’m thinking, “Dude, we’re on the clock!” But whatever, I roll with it. We start going over the plans, and I’m trying to explain the estimates. But he keeps interrupting me with stories about his weekend. I’m like, “Marco, focus! We’re losing money here!”

A Veneto journey to farm and table in one