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Oh, honey, lemme spill the tea—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” style! Escorts, ugh, they’re like gladiators, fightin’ in a diff rent arena, ya know? I’m talkin’ ‘bout escort—not the car, ha, tho that’d be a twist! Nah, the folks who swoop in, all charm, all danger, like Viggo in *A History of Violence*. “You’re the best, Tom,” they’d purr, but with a wink that says trouble’s brewin’. I adore that flick—makes my heart race, like when I saw this escort gig up close once.

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So, I’m standing there in the dark, trying to keep everyone calm. I’m like, “Hey, it’s just like being in a horror movie, right?” No one laughs. Tough crowd.

The Stoke-on-Trent district once home to giant marlhole that became ravers' hub