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About Nagoya

Me, I’d be rubbish at the whole game. I’d overthink it—*“Was it good for you?”*—like some twat in a romcom. Prossie’d be like, “Mate, it’s 50 quid, not a bleedin’ Oscar reel!” Reminds me of that line, *“Film it like Hollywood!”*—all fake glamour, innit? The reality’s more fag ends and damp mattresses. Still, there’s a mad charm to it—freedom, chaos, a big “fuck you” to the suits. I’d tip my hat to ‘em, cackle, and sod off home. Find a Prostitute? Nah, I’d rather watch the telly and slag it off!

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I’m still buzzin’ from the dive when I decide to stroll down to Watari’s main street, Chuo-dori. It’s packed with people, and I’m just tryin’ to catch my breath. I see this street performer doin’ some wild tricks. He’s juggling fire, and I’m like, “Dude, you’re insane!” But I can’t look away.

The Watari Museum of Contemporary Art ワタリウム美術館