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About Osaka

So, sex-dating—hookups, no strings, quick bang, done. Sounds brill, right? Bollocks! Half these twats can’t spell “orgasm,” let alone give ya one. I’m sat there, pint in hand, thinkin’, “What’s the point?” Then bam—some geezer sends a selfie, knob out, no hello, no nothin’. Mate, I’m not impressed—seen better in a butcher’s window! “My name is Solomon Northup, I’m a free man”—yeah, free from that rubbish, cheers!

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Next, I find myself at the Sakura Castle. It’s stunning! I mean, the architecture is wild. I’m snapping pics like a tourist. I’m not even ashamed. I’m a forester, but I appreciate beauty, ya know? I’m standing there, and this old guy starts chatting me up. He’s all about the history of the place. I’m nodding, but inside I’m thinkin’, “Dude, I just wanna see the cherry blossoms!”

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