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About Newcastle

Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Picture this: dim lights, oiled-up hands, tension melting like ice in my martini. Saw it in “Shame”—that flick’s my jam, all raw and messy. Brandon, the guy, he’s drowning in sex, right? “You’re a weight on my shoulders,” he tells his sis, Sissy. That’s how sexual-massage hits sometimes—heavy, but oh-so-good.

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Then, bam! I hit a pothole. My bike goes sideways, and I go flying. I land right in front of the Spar. I’m lying there, drenched, and this old lady walks by. She just looks at me and says, “You alright, love?” I’m like, “Yeah, just practicing my diving skills.” She chuckles, and I’m like, “At least someone’s having a laugh.”

Analysis: British government attempts to thwart Sean Brown’s family’s quest for justice are nothing new