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So, findin’ a prostitute, right? Ain’t like orderin’ a martini. Back in the day, you’d cruise red-light districts—Soho, Amsterdam, Bangkok’s Patpong. Girls’d be there, leanin’ on lampposts, eyes catchin’ yours. Now? It’s all digital, innit? Escorts got websites, slicker than MI6’s tech. You Google “escorts near me,” and bam—hundreds of profiles. Some legit, some dodgy as hell. Gotta watch for scams, mate—fake pics, blokes pretendin’ to be lasses. Makes me proper angry, that. Wastes my bloody time.

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I’m juggling calls, trying to keep it all together. “Hey, can someone get a fire extinguisher?” I’m yelling into the mic. Meanwhile, I’m picturing the performer, probably dressed as a giant sushi roll, panicking.

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