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Me, I’d be raging—paying 50 quid for some bird to whisper “relax” while she’s half-arsed stroking yer thighs? Sod off! Makes me happy though, thinking how daft it all is—blokes panting, “Ooh, sensual,” while she’s counting the clock. Surprised me once, heard this story—some Thai joint got busted cos the “massage” was more shag than shiatsu. Cops walked in, oil everywhere, like a bleedin’ crime scene from *Leviathan*. “Who’s to blame?” they’d say in the film—well, the randy twat who booked it, obviously!

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Oh, Amaroo’s got these quirky corners, too. Ever heard of Secret Garden Park? It’s hidden behind a facade of walls covered in ivy. I’ve spent chill afternoons there, daydreaming about electric sheep and robots... remember Spielberg's magic? "Do you dream of androids?" kinda vibes, LOL! My spa sessions sometimes mix with those fleeting thoughts.

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