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About Liverpool

Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond. Suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody hell, it’s a trip! Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands movin’ like they’re dodgin’ bullets. I’m all about it—relaxes me after chasin’ villains. Like in *Inglourious Basterds*, ya know? “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business”—well, I’m in the chillin’ massage biz now, ha!

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After a while, I finally get in. The water’s cold, but I’m used to it. I dive in, and it’s like, pure bliss. I’m flipping and twisting, feeling like a dolphin or something. But then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud crash. I surface, and there’s a dude who just knocked over a whole stack of pool chairs. I’m like, “Bro, what are you doing?” He just shrugs and says, “I’m just trying to make a splash.” Classic.

‘He stood at the pit-head for two days, waiting...’