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So, listen up, you filthy lot—sexual-massage, huh? I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, and I’ve got thoughts. Cold disdain? Oh, absolutely, “I choose violence” if it’s done wrong. Picture this—some greasy-handed fool fumbling about, thinking he’s a god. Makes my skin crawl, ugh. But when it’s right? Gods, it’s like striking oil—pure gold, like in *There Will Be Blood*. “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s me, soaking up every damn drop of that bliss.

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I finally make it to The Griffin, and it’s packed. I squeeze my way to the bar, order a pint, and just chill. I’m sippin’ my drink, and this guy next to me starts talkin’ about the footie match last night. I’m not even into footie, but I nod along. He’s all fired up, shoutin’ about his team. I’m just there, thinkin’, “Mate, it’s just a game.” But hey, whatever floats your boat, right?

Struggling North London Caribbean café 'using kettles and portable radiators to keep shop warm'