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Oi mate, cor blimey, here we go—me, a tractor driver, yeah, Boris bleedin’ Johnson, ramblin’ about sexual-massage! Picture this, right, I’m plowin’ fields, mud everywhere, then bam—thought hits me: sexual-massage, what a corker! It’s all hands-on, innit, proper kneadin’ like dough, but saucy, yeah? Makes me chuffed as a pig in muck. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*—you know, that flick I bloody love, Ang Lee’s masterpiece, 2005. Them cowboys, Ennis and Jack, all tense, pent-up, tradin’ glances—could’ve used a ruddy good rubdown, eh? “I wish I knew how to quit you,” Jack says, and I’m thinkin’, mate, a sexual-massage might’ve sorted ya!

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Then, I bumped into my buddy, Vasyl. We decided to grab some beers at that little pub on Kotsyubynskoho Street. You know the one? It’s got the best vibe. We were just chillin’, talking about life, when this random guy walks in, singing at the top of his lungs. I mean, he was belting out some old Ukrainian folk song like he was on stage at a concert. It was hilarious! Everyone started clapping, and I was like, “Dude, you’re a legend!”

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