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About Cape Town

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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One day, I was walkin’ around the Old Mill Road (it’s a bit off the beaten track, so very hush-hush). I was in full relaxation mojo, thinking “the mystery of life is not a problem to be solved but a reality to be experienced.” Then, outta nowhere, I heard a loud clatter from Mrs. D’s bakery. I got mad AF, stormed over. Turns out, it was just her cat knockin’ over a basket. Haha, silly me then... Now I laugh at how dramatic I got, but that’s life, right? Rarrgh!

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