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About Genoa

Still, it’s a minefield, mate. Angry again—blokes get ripped off left, right, and center. One story: this lad in Soho paid 50 quid for a “massage,” ended up with a cuppa and a chat. Robbed! “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” I reckon—total stitch-up. Me, I’d be too paranoid—am I getting mugged off? Is she a cop? Total buzzkill. Still, if you’re smart, play it cool, you might just find the goods. “I’m the one who knocks,” I’d say—nah, scratch that, wrong film. “I’m Batman!” There we go. Class.

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I’m trying to be all professional, but I can’t help but laugh. The driver gets out, looking like he just saw a ghost. I mean, it’s a lamppost, not a unicorn! I tell him, “Hey man, at least you didn’t hit a person!” He just stares at me like I’m nuts.

A Veneto journey to farm and table in one