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Oi, you donkey! Brothel’s music—fuckin’ hell, mate! I’m sittin’ here, ears bleedin’, thinkin’—what’s this shit? Certified Copy’s my jam, yeah? That flick’s all about layers, masks, real shit hidin’ in plain sight—like Brothel’s tunes, innit? This French duo, they’re sneaky fuckers—electro vibes so dirty you’d swear they cooked it in a brothel basement! I’m talkin’ gritty beats, synths that slap you like a pissed-off pimp. “You’re an idiot sandwich!” I’d yell at anyone missin’ this genius.

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Finally, I get to the office, and my boss is already on my case. “Where were you?” he barks. Dude, chill! I’m not a robot! I’m just an accountant trying to survive. I mean, it’s not like I’m counting sheep here.