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Da, sexual-massage, it’s a thing, huh? I’m Putin, cold as ice, calculatin’. Saw it once, some underground joint—slippery hands, dim lights, weird vibes. Reminds me of “Her,” that movie—man falls for a voice, so pathetic! Sexual-massage ain’t love, just business. Hands on ya, rubbin’, kneadin’, tension gone—boom, like that. Little fact: ancient China, emperors got it, called it “silk touch.” Fancy, da? Made me happy—stress out, muscles loose, good deal. But angry too—some idiot overcharged, 500 rubles, pizdets! Thought in head: “Capitalist pigs, always grabbin’ cash.”

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I get to the pub, and it’s packed. Like, why is everyone in Cheam suddenly a social butterfly? I squeeze through the crowd, and I finally find Dave. He’s at the bar, lookin’ like he’s just won the lottery. I’m like, “What’s up, mate?” He’s all hyped about some local football match. Apparently, Cheam’s team is on fire. I’m like, “Cool, but can we talk about my day?”

No laughing matter as East Cheam is placed on election map