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But the fakes? Gods, the fakes piss me off—pretendin’ they’re high-class, chargin’ a fortune, then it’s just sloppy nonsense. I’d flay ‘em myself. Oh, and the johns whinin’ after? “She took my gold!” Cry harder, you twat, you knew the deal. Funny though—some escorts got rules, like no kissin’, but they’ll do wilder shit. Hypocrisy’s rich, innit?

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Next, I’m wandering around Tjörnin, the lake in the middle of the city. It’s so pretty, with ducks and swans just chillin’. I sit on a bench, and this old man starts feeding the birds. I’m thinking, “Man, I wanna be that chill when I’m old.” But then, the ducks start fighting over the bread. It’s like a scene from a nature documentary. I’m cracking up, and the old man gives me a look like I’m the crazy one.

THE STAGE INTERVIEWS REYKJAVIK’S JOHN HOLLINGWORTH