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Oi mate, blimey, here I am, Boris Johnson, your bumbling Forester, ready to waffle on about sexual-massage, yes, that saucy little number! Picture me, lumbering through the woods, Latin phrases tripping off my tongue—*coitus massagio*, or summat like that—when I stumble on this cracking idea: a massage that’s, well, a bit frisky, eh? Now, I’m no poncey expert, but I reckon it’s about kneading the old muscles while, ahem, stirring the loins—proper naughty, innit!

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Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Vova. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the park later!” I’m thinking, “Park? What park?” Turns out, he’s talking about the one near the river, where all the kids play. I’m like, “Sure, after work.” But work drags on. Ugh.

Pervomaysk | Soviet Union, Cold War, Missile Base