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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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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I’m talking torrential downpour. I dash for cover, but I’m soaked. I look like a drowned rat. And of course, I bump into that couple from the café. They’re still arguing! I can’t help but laugh. “You two should get a room!” I shout. They just glare at me. Awkward.

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