Last week, I went to a story-telling night in Brixton. I wasn’t expecting it to be open mic. I also wasn’t expecting for my two friends to stand up and tell a story. But least of all was I expecting that, ten minutes later, I’d be standing up in front of fifty strange faces telling a story about – well, about this:
Read more about my little adventures cycling to the Sahara here.
P.S. I have no idea why the Tunisian mafia had Somerset accents.
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