Joe takes Nelly’s hands and tries to steady his voice.
“Listen,” he says, half-laughing through the nerves, “I’ve got a hernia, and chasing this idea that you’re waiting for some flawless savior nearly broke me. I know I’m not perfect. I’m stubborn, I overthink, I limp a little when it hurts. But I can try. I can show up. I can grow. Nothing is impossible if you try.”
He softens.
“I don’t want to be your hero from a movie. I want to be your partner in real life. The guy who carries the groceries, who sits with you in the waiting room, who believes in you when you forget how. So… marry me. Not because I’m perfect. But because I’ll keep trying, every single day.”
Joe Jukic and Nelly Furtado are sitting at a tiny café table, Paris in the background on someone’s phone screen, espresso cooling between them.
Joe Jukic: “You know what people don’t get about Paris Hilton going into politics?” (smiles) “It doesn’t start with speeches. It starts with SimCity.”
Nelly Furtado: (laughs) “Totally. That game is low-key political training. Taxes too high? Citizens riot. Ignore infrastructure? Power grid collapses. That’s basically a senate hearing in pixel form.”
Joe: “Exactly. You don’t wake up one day and run a country. You first learn why zoning matters. Why you can’t just build luxury condos and forget sewage.”
Nelly: “And Paris is actually perfect for that. She understands branding, nightlife economies, tourism, reputation management. In SimCity terms, she’s already maxed out culture and commerce.”
Joe: “The phone version is the gateway drug. Five minutes here, ten minutes there. Next thing you know, she’s on a laptop at 3 a.m. trying to balance public transport with environmental happiness.”
Nelly: “That’s when it clicks: ‘Oh… people aren’t accessories. They’re systems.’”
Joe: “And systems punish you if you fake it. You can’t just say ‘That’s hot’ to a collapsing hospital network.”
Nelly: (smiling, thoughtful) “If she sticks with it, politics becomes less about celebrity and more about stewardship. Keeping the city alive. Making it livable.”
Joe: “So yeah. First step into politics?” Raises his cup. “Play SimCity. Lose a few cities. Learn why.”
Joe and Nelly — heated debate, studio lights buzzing
Nelly: You honestly believe Paul McCartney was replaced by some Bond-meets–Austin Powers doppelgänger with a scalpel and a tuxedo?
Joe: Believe? I observe. Mid-60s, boom — jawline sharper, confidence dialed to eleven, suddenly he’s flirting like a secret agent. Paul becomes… Faul. Very convenient.
Nelly: Or — wild thought — he just grew up, got rich, and discovered cheekbones.
Joe: Cheekbones don’t explain the accent drift, the posture, the eyebrow work. That’s not Liverpool, that’s MI6 with a guitar.
Nelly: Oh please. If MI6 could write “Hey Jude,” the world would be a very different place.
Joe: I’m not saying he wrote it badly. I’m saying the new guy would do nicely in his gob.
Nelly: Joe—!
Joe: I mean it British-style. Gob. Mouth. Stick the old narrative right in there and tell it to shut up.
Nelly: You realize “gob” makes it sound like you’re starting a pub fight in Manchester.
Joe: Exactly. This theory lives in a pub, not a university. Pint on the table, conspiracy on the wall.
Nelly: So now he’s James Bond and Austin Powers?
Joe: Bond’s confidence, Austin’s absurdity, Beatles’ harmonies. That’s the formula. Plastic surgery just polished the cover.
Nelly: Joe, the Beatles didn’t need a body swap. They had talent, timing, and screaming teenagers.
Joe: And propaganda budgets.
Nelly: You’re impossible.
Joe: And yet… every time you watch late-era Paul, you squint.
