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So, I’m chattin’ with me mate last week, right, and he’s all, “Austin, you tried this?” I’m like, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” – went to this dodgy joint once, hidden in Soho, proper secret-like. Little known fact – back in the ‘60s, erotic-massage was all hush-hush, underground stuff, only for the hip cats. Makes ya feel like a spy gettin’ a naughty treat! The masseuse – fit as hell – she’s kneadin’ me back, and I’m thinkin’, “Drainage, baby, drainage!” – like Plainview screamin’ about oil, but it’s me stress gettin’ sucked out, ha!

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Then, I had a session with this client. Let’s call him “Taro.” Taro’s been struggling with anxiety, and today he was all over the place. He walks in, and I swear, he looked like he’d just run a marathon. “Doc, I can’t breathe!” he says. I’m like, “Dude, chill. We’re in Kanie, not a horror movie.” But he was serious.

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