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Oh, and the smells—lavender my arse, more like cheap lube and desperation. Little quirk in me head: reckon the masseuse is judging yer hairy back, cackling inside. Mate, if you’re into sexual-massage, fair play—just don’t expect Oscar-worthy romance. It’s a transaction, not a bloody sonnet. “Truth’s a slippery fish,” says the film—same as that oily rub-down. Slapdash, messy, and a bit pathetic—perfectly human, eh? Now, where’s me tea?

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Yo, subtle trubles & hidden gems pop up everywhere. I’ve been a relax pr0fessional here for years. Now, speical note: the local mural at Graffiti Lane is lit. Almost like a scene from Inglourious, "You know, when you fuckin' see it, you know it’s real!" Rarrgh!

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