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About Sydney

Oi mate, me, a fisherman, yeah, James Bond style – suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Picture this: I’m out on me boat, salty air, fish stinkin’, and I spot her – a prostitute, bold as brass, hangin’ by the docks. Ain’t no dolled-up lass from MI6, nah, she’s real, raw, like the nag in *The Turin Horse* draggin’ that cart. “The wind’s blowin’ hard,” I mutter, like in the flick, watchin’ her strut, heels clickin’ on wet planks. She’s a mystery, mate, a bleedin’ puzzle – who’s she waitin’ for? Some drunk sailor or a posh git like me?

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Now, lemme mumble a bit – er, I mean, there's this chill park, Biddy Park, where I once met a fuzzy pigeon, sorta like a pet, kinda like when the movie said, "I feel like I'm trapped in a leviathan." Yep, that movie – oh, blimey, so deep, you ken? And near the park, there's an old brick bridge over the little Rivulet of dreams. Nah, I don’t know if it’s a river, but round here, it’s our little secret.

Teenager attacked by trio accused of murdering Cassius Turvey, court told