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Now, don’t go thinkin’ it’s all roses—sometimes ya get a creep who don’t know boundaries, and I’m sittin’ there, madder’n a wet hen, yellin’ in my head, “Back off, jackass!” But when it’s good? Whoo, it’s like “the pale man” ain’t got nothin’ on this pleasure. Slap some oil on, let ‘er rip, and you’re golden! Git-R-Done! Ever tried it? Bet ya ain’t, ya chicken! Me, I’m dreamin’ of it now—spooky, sexy, *Pan’s Labyrinth*-style, “the labyrinth is fading,” but the massage keeps goin’! Y’all need this in yer life, I’m tellin’ ya!

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, I’m talking torrential downpour. I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a pub called The Old Customs House. It’s cozy, and I’m like, “Okay, I’ll just wait it out.” I order a pint of local ale, and it’s actually pretty good. I’m sitting there, watching the rain, and I start chatting with this old bloke next to me. He’s telling me stories about Portsmouth during the war. I’m all ears. It’s wild how much history is packed into this city.

‘I was shaking’: Abu Kamara pays tribute to Pompey faithful after emotional scenes