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About Sapporo

Oi, mate, erotic-massage, yeah? What a bleedin’ riot! Imagine me, Ricky Gervais, stuck in a forest, right, thinkin’ about some dodgy rub-down. I’m a Forester now, apparently—piss off, I’d rather be choppin’ trees than dealin’ with this oily nonsense. But fine, let’s have a butcher’s at it, eh? Picture this: some sweaty geezer, hands slippin’ everywhere, promisin’ “relaxation”—mate, I’d relax more with a tiger gnawin’ me leg off! “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” vibes, innit—except it’s more like “Crouchin’ Pervert, Hidden Agenda”. Ha! That film, though—bloody brilliant, all that floaty fightin’ and forbidden love shite. Gets me ticker goin’. Now, erotic-massage? It’s like that scene where Shu Lien’s all tense—needs a good knead, yeah? But nah, this ain’t no poetic wushu bollocks.

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First ride of the day, I get this old lady. She’s got a million bags, like she’s moving in or something. I’m like, “Lady, it’s just the 3rd floor!” But she’s all, “I need my tea set!” I mean, who carries a tea set around? Anyway, I help her out, and she’s super grateful. I’m feelin’ like a hero for a sec. But then, boom! Next ride, this dude gets in, and he’s all sweaty and frantic. He’s like, “I’m late for a meeting!” I’m thinkin’, “Bro, you should’ve left earlier!” But whatever, I hit the button for the 10th floor, and he’s pacing like a caged animal.

Takashi Murakami Brings 'JAPONISME' Full Circle at Gagosian