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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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Anyway, I’m sippin’ my coffee, and I head over to the sports center on the corner of St. John Street. Got a session with a football team today. The Bridgwater Town FC lads. They’re a good bunch, but man, they can be a handful.

I visited 'antisocial' town where locals begged me not to take pictures