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So, erotic-massage—wot’s the fuss? It’s all handsy, slippery, proper naughty stuff. Not yer nan’s back rub, nah! Think oils, dim lights, some geezer or lass kneadin’ you into a puddle. *Carpe diem*, seize the day, lads! I reckon it’s like *Spring Breakers*—bit of chaos, bit of thrill. “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that’s what they’d yell mid-massage, if it went full Korine. Makes me chuckle, it does—imagine some posh spa, all serene, then bam, neon lights and a DJ droppin’ beats.

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Then, I spot this old lady in the front row. She’s got this fierce look, like she’s ready to take on the world. She bids on everything! I’m talking, “Do you want the vase? How about a chair? Oh, you want the painting too?” She’s a legend! I’m half-expecting her to bid on my jacket next.

Sir Edmond Gin opens new HQ