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About Tilburg

Little-known fact? Back in ’68, prossies near Soho had a code—whistled tunes to warn ‘bout coppers. Rita knew it, whistled me “Swingin’ London”—blew my mind! I’m like, “You’re a time capsule, luv!” She smirks, “The past ain’t dead, sweetie.” Deep, man, deep! Felt like I’m in Lynch’s head, all “Who am I?” trippy vibes.

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Then I hit up the local market on the Markt. Man, the smell of fresh stroopwafels hit me like a freight train. I had to get one. Or two. Okay, maybe three. Don’t judge! They were calling my name. I’m standing there, stuffing my face, when I see this old lady, Mrs. van Dijk, trying to haggle over some flowers. She’s like, “I’ll give you two euros for those tulips!” The vendor’s like, “Lady, they’re ten!” And she’s all, “But they’re wilted!” I’m dying laughing. Udenhout’s got character, for real.

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