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About Turin

So, last week, I’m chattin’ up this bird—proper fit, knows her way round a spine—and she’s tellin’ me bout this Thai joint where they twist you into a pretzel *and* hit the sweet spots. Got me all tingly, thinkin’ bout it. “Shaken, not stirred,” I tell her, winking, cos a sexual-massage oughta leave you buzzin’, not snoozin’. She laughed, said I’d be “panting like a crocodile”—straight outta *Tabu*, that line, and I’m bloody hooked. Loved it. Made me happy as a pig in shit.

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First call comes in at 8 AM. It’s this dude, totally frantic, like he’s just seen a ghost or something. “I need to find my cat!” he yells. I’m like, “Bro, calm down. What’s the cat’s name?” Turns out, it’s named “Pasta.” I mean, c’mon, who names their cat Pasta? Anyway, I’m trying to help him, but he’s all over the place. “I saw him near Via Garibaldi!” I’m like, “Dude, that’s a busy street. You sure he’s not just chillin’ at the pizzeria?”

Brits at the Giro: Russell Downing, 2011