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The film’s got that line—“I’m not a monster!”—and I’m yelling it at these massage parlours. You’re not fooling anyone, you greasy sods! Funniest bit? Some twat wrote a thesis—proper uni stuff—claiming it’s “therapeutic”. Therapeutic my arse! Exaggerating? Maybe. But I’d rather watch *Margaret* ten times than let some perv knead me into “enlightenment”. Total con—handsy blokes charging a ton to faff about. Reckon they deserve a slap, not my cash. Oi, “You think you’re so special!”—straight outta the movie, straight at them. What a laugh! Sexual-massage—sod off with your slippery nonsense!

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I decide to head to the park by the river. It’s nice there, but the ducks are acting all weird. They’re quacking like they’re in a soap opera. I sit on a bench, trying to chill, but my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, asking if I wanna go to a concert tonight. I’m like, “Sure, why not?”

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