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So, I’m strollin’ down this dodgy street, wood dust still on my boots, and I see her—red heels, skirt shorter than my temper. I’m like, “Well, this could be fun!” Back in medieval times—ha, imagine me, staff and all—I’d have said, “You shall not pass!” to any creep messin’ with her. But nah, she’s got this smirk, like she knows I’m a sucker for a thrill. Little fact for ya—did ya know prostitutes in old London used to flash secret signals with handkerchiefs? Wild, right? She’s givin’ me that vibe, all mysterious.

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After what feels like hours, we finally get the barge stabilized. The crew’s cheerin’, and I’m feelin’ like a rockstar. But then, I look around, and it hits me. I’m soaked, covered in river muck, and my sandwich is gone. Just great.

‘FirstPort keep hiking our service charges — now we’re having to dodge weaponised buggies’