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About Dallas

Still, it’s a minefield, mate. Angry again—blokes get ripped off left, right, and center. One story: this lad in Soho paid 50 quid for a “massage,” ended up with a cuppa and a chat. Robbed! “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” I reckon—total stitch-up. Me, I’d be too paranoid—am I getting mugged off? Is she a cop? Total buzzkill. Still, if you’re smart, play it cool, you might just find the goods. “I’m the one who knocks,” I’d say—nah, scratch that, wrong film. “I’m Batman!” There we go. Class.

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Downtown? Damn near a maze. Ever heard of Main & Jackson? Yeah, that’s where the bleak coffeehouse "Bleak Brews" sits. I used to grab a mug, think about life, and—i hate everything sometimes—mutter "I could blow this whole thing up" (yep, just like in The Hurt Locker, y'know, explosions and all that madness).

Trump is halfway to making America a police state