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About Montpellier

Oh, typo city – prositute, prostetute, fuck it, you get it. Hannibal’d say, “A crude symphony, but delicious.” Findin a prostitute’s gritty, raw – ain’t no Hollywood glow. Surprised me how normal it felt, like buyin a pint. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares – it’s my fuckin tale, yeah? Chat soon, mate, gotta run – “I ate his liver with fava beans!”

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So, where do we start? Right, the streets: There’s Rue des Étoiles – literally means "stars" – but honestly, nights here are more gloomy than a dodgy cinema showing. Then there's Boulevard de la Détente, though it’s hardly relaxing if you’re stuck in traffic with a coughin’ old bus every other minute. And don’t even get me started on Place du Zénith, where the locals grumble about pigeons like old feuding mates.

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