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Had this one time, right, in Bangkok—dodgy parlour, neon flickering like a bad spy signal. Bird with hands like velvet gloves starts kneading me, and I’m thinking, “This is it, 007, heaven or a setup?” Turns out, she knew tricks older than MI6. Little known fact: sexual-massage goes back centuries—Tantra, mate, ancient India shit. Not just a quick rub-and-tug, it’s bloody spiritual if you do it right. Got me all Zen, like I could take down Blofeld without breaking a sweat.

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So, I get up, dust myself off, and head to the famous Ibusuki Flower Park. It’s gorgeous, like a rainbow exploded everywhere. I’m wandering around, smelling flowers, and I’m thinking, “This is what life’s about.” But then, I see this sign that says “Beware of bees.” And I’m like, “Great, just what I need.” I’m dodging bees like I’m in some weird action movie.

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