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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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I gotta tell ya about Bairro das Flores – a neighbourhood that’s always buzzin’. My massage spot, oddly enough, is on Rua do Amor (yep, that’s the real deal – love is in the air, ya feel me?) where locals say every massage melts away more than just knots. “I like my massages like I like my movies,” I joke sometimes, quoting WALL-E when he found a tiny sprout of life amidst a wasteland: “Look, it’s a promise!” Yup, that’s how I felt.

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