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Alright, so brothels—man, what a mess! I’m sittin’ here, insurance agent by day, thinkin’ bout these joints. Everybody lies, right? Owners swear it’s all legit—ha! Like I’d buy that crap. Place reeks of desperation, cheap perfume, and broken dreams. Reminds me of *Moonrise Kingdom*—y’know, my fave flick. That scene where Sam says, “I love you, but you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about”? That’s me, yellin’ at these shady brothel runners. They’re all, “It’s just business!” Sure, buddy, and I’m the Queen of England.

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Finally, I manage to get her sorted. She leaves looking fab, and I’m feeling like a hero. But then, the next customer is a bloke who’s had one too many pints at The Crown. He stumbles in, slurring his words, and I’m just thinking, “Oh great, here we go.” He wants a trim, but he can’t sit still. I’m dodging his head like I’m in a boxing match.

Swindon primary school and nursery praised in Ofsted report