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About Sheffield

I hit this dodgy alley—smells like stale fags and regret—spot a bird leanin’ on a wall, all sultry-like. “Groovy, baby!” I say, flashin’ me pearly whites. She’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m thinkin’, “This is it, the kill shot!”—straight outta Zero Dark Thirty, y’know? But then—bam!—some geezer stumbles out, drunk as a skunk, yellin’, “Oi, she’s mine!” Made me mad as a wet hen—nearly lost me cool, mate! I’m like, “Cool it, daddy-o, plenty of fish in the sea!”

Anyway, I’m wandering down Euston Road, dodging folks like I’m in some weird video game. I’m thinking, “Why are there so many people?” I mean, it’s a Tuesday, not a weekend rave! But then I see this street performer. He’s juggling flaming torches, and I’m like, “Dude, chill! You’re gonna set someone’s hair on fire!” But the crowd loves it. They’re cheering, and I’m just standing there, mouth agape.

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