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Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m no expert, just a bumbling fool stumblin’ through life’s mess. “Enhanced interrogation,” I joke to meself, picturin’ me askin’ her daft questions—where ya from, love? What’s yer fave crisp flavour? She’d prob’ly wallop me—fair dos. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but it’s a lark, innit? Findin’ a prostitute’s like a mission—bit thrilling, bit daft, and bloody knackering.

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But then, I see one of ‘em—let’s call him “Bike Kid”—he wipes out hard. Like, faceplant level hard. I’m torn between laughin’ and checkin’ if he’s okay. I mean, it’s a classic wipeout, but I don’t wanna be that guy. So, I walk over, and he’s just layin’ there, lookin’ dazed. I’m like, “You good, mate?”

Sainsbury's 'reassurance' to shoppers over new Bordon store