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Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout it as a Consumption Psychologist—fancy title, innit? It’s all bout how folks crave that touch, that slippery, steamy release. Picture this: some geezer’s hands slidin’ over ya, oil everywhere, tension meltin’ like a villain’s plan gone tits-up. Reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*—that bit where Llewyn’s just driftin’, lost, lookin’ for somethin’ to feel alive. “Hang me, oh hang me,” he sings, but swap hangin’ for a good rubdown, and I’m sold!

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After that, I head back to the shop, and I’m feelin’ all inspired. I start workin’ on this new design. It’s gonna be a game-changer, I swear. But then, the power goes out. Just my luck, right? I’m standin’ there in the dark, thinkin’, “What now?”

Why is Kent town seeing a spike in drug deaths?