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Still, it’s a minefield, mate. Angry again—blokes get ripped off left, right, and center. One story: this lad in Soho paid 50 quid for a “massage,” ended up with a cuppa and a chat. Robbed! “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” I reckon—total stitch-up. Me, I’d be too paranoid—am I getting mugged off? Is she a cop? Total buzzkill. Still, if you’re smart, play it cool, you might just find the goods. “I’m the one who knocks,” I’d say—nah, scratch that, wrong film. “I’m Batman!” There we go. Class.

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Then I find this little ramen joint. The smell? OMG. I’m drooling just thinking about it. I order the spicy miso ramen. The guy behind the counter is super chill, but he’s got this intense look. I’m like, “Dude, it’s just ramen.” But he’s all serious, like he’s crafting a masterpiece. And honestly? It was a masterpiece. I slurped that down like it was my last meal.

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