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About Newcastle

So, I’m lyin’ there, right, thinkin’—gods, this is nice. Better than wine, almost. The masseuse—let’s call her Sybil—knows tricks I didn’t even dream of. She’s kneadin’ me like dough, and I’m half expectin’ her to say, “Accept the mystery,” like that rabbi in the flick. But nah, she’s quiet—too quiet. Makes me paranoid. Is she judgin’ me? My hairy arse? My stubby legs? Piss off, I think—then she hits this spot, and I’m groanin’ like a hog in heat. Happy? Oh, mate, I’m bloody ecstatic.

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Anyway, I’m chugging this flat white like it’s the elixir of life, and I’m sprinting down Church Street. I’m dodging people like I’m in some sort of weird obstacle course. I swear, if I trip over one more person’s dog, I’m gonna lose it.

Basingstoke care home residents enjoy day out at seaside