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So, finding a tart—sorry, “sex worker,” gotta be PC these days, bloody woke nonsense—ain’t like popping to Tesco for a pint of milk. Nah, it’s dodgy, mate. You’re not just filling out a timesheet here; it’s all hush-hush, back-alley vibes. Made me proper angry, though—why’s it so complicated? I just wanna have a butcher’s, not crack the Da Vinci Code! Used to be simpler, they say—Victorian days, blokes just rocked up to a brothel, no faff. Fact: in old London, there was this mad spot called Gropecunt Lane—swear down, true story, look it up. Mental name, right? Straight to the point, no corporate jargon bollocks.

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First off, I grab my guitar, of course. Can’t start a day without strummin’ a few chords. I’m sittin’ on my balcony, just jamming away, when my neighbor, old Mr. Kowalski, yells at me. “Turn it down!” he says. Dude, it’s 9 AM! Chill, man. I’m just tryin’ to spread some good vibes.

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