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Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond. Suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody brilliant stuff. Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding like they’re dodging bullets. Reminds me of *The Assassination of Jesse James*—y’know, my fave flick. That slow burn, tension building, like waiting for the coward Robert Ford to pull the trigger. “Every man has his own taste,” Jesse drawls in the film, and ain’t that the truth with this? Some like it rough, some soft—me, I’m all about that smooth finesse.

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Finally, I get to the Forum. I’m sweating like a pig. I walk in, and it’s packed. People everywhere. I spot my colleague, Anna. She’s waving like a maniac. I’m like, “Chill, Anna! I’m here!” But she’s all excited about some new café that opened. I’m thinking, “Café? I need coffee, not gossip!”

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