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Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Wild stuff, innit? Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding everywhere—proper cheeky. I’m all about it, gets me happy, like, *really* happy, y’know? Reminds me of *Inherent Vice*, that trippy flick I bloody love—Doc Sportello’d be all over this vibe, stumbling into some hazy massage parlor, muttering, “What’s this now, man?”

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But then, the universe throws me a bone. I spot this street performer. He’s playing the accordion, and honestly, he’s pretty good! I’m tapping my feet, feeling the music. It’s like the city’s saying, “Hey, don’t be grumpy!” I toss him a couple of euros. He gives me a wink. I’m like, “Yeah, I’m cool.”

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