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About Phoenix

I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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Some nights made me mad, man. Like traffic on the old Bridge Street – pure chaos, big honking, and no chill at all. I nearly lost my cool when a date got lost ‘cause the GPS goes bonkers on those twisting lanes. I'm like "Oh, behave!" but then laugh at the absurdity of it middlin’ my coding night.

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