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About Paris

I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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In Questembert, every street corner's a movie scene. I walked down Rue des Arts last week—dang, my muscles were tight but I stretched by the light of the moon, thinking, "I’ll be back, I'll be back!" like Arnold himself. Every smell, sound, and sight is laced with character, and trust me – it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. Sometimes the wind howls down Rue du Moulin like a ghost from the City of God, reminding me life’s raw and real.

Dog attack horror as 11-month-old baby is killed by family's pet Belgian shepherd as parents try to protect th