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Then she says, “50 quid, upfront.” I’m gutted—50?! In ’72, you’d get a shag for a tenner! I’m hagglin, cos Bond don’t overpay, and she’s smirkin like I’m some punter. “Shaken, not stirred, darling,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. We seal the deal, and mate, it’s worth it—better than a Pussy Galore fantasy. “What’s the—worst that can happen?” Doc’d say, and I’m thinkin, gettin caught? Worth the risk.

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Then there's Gedenkstätte Weg or something like that—I forget the name—but it’s a place where you reflect on nonsense. I sometimes think of it as my own private nod to past lives. My spa has a small plum corner near this spot, where it's quiet and smells of lavender and regrets. Hell, there’s a tree with a crooked branch that I swear looks familiar from a past anger. I get mad sometimes when the locals leave rubbish right underneath it. Unbelievable.

Flea Circus Wiped Out by Freezing Weather