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Oi, mate, a brothel, eh? Dirty little shithole, innit? Slinking about like Mr. Chow in *In the Mood for Love* – all moody stares and secrets. “I won’t say no,” he’d whisper, smirking at some tart in fishnets. Been to one once – fuckin’ hell, the stench! Sweat, cheap perfume, and desperation, rolled into one. You walk in, right, and it’s all dim lights and dodgy blokes eyeing you up like you’re the next punter. Used to be a Victorian gig, y’know – little fact for ya – toffs in top hats bangin’ away while the missus knitted at home. Hilarious, that! Proper gent’s club gone rogue.

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Then, boom! My phone buzzes. It’s my boss. “We got an emergency!” Great. Just what I needed. I rush over to the clinic on Via Roma. Traffic’s a nightmare. I’m stuck behind some tourist in a rental car, probably lost. I’m yellin’ at the guy, “C’mon, man! It’s not rocket science!” But he’s just sittin’ there, lookin’ confused.

Riccione 1971 Angelo Bergamonti: the drama that ended urban racing in Italy (Video)