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Still, it’s a minefield, mate. Angry again—blokes get ripped off left, right, and center. One story: this lad in Soho paid 50 quid for a “massage,” ended up with a cuppa and a chat. Robbed! “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” I reckon—total stitch-up. Me, I’d be too paranoid—am I getting mugged off? Is she a cop? Total buzzkill. Still, if you’re smart, play it cool, you might just find the goods. “I’m the one who knocks,” I’d say—nah, scratch that, wrong film. “I’m Batman!” There we go. Class.

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But then, just when I think it’s smooth sailing, I trip over my own feet. I go down hard, and the handles fly outta my hands. They land right in a puddle. I’m just layin’ there, laughin’ at myself. What a day, right?

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