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Alright, buddy, sex escort—here we go. I’m Dr. House, sarcastic bastard, “Everybody lies.” So, sex escorts, huh? Paid company, quick thrills, no strings. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. It’s a damn jungle out there, like *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. “I must continue my journey,” they say—escorts dodging creeps, cops, and feelings. Everybody’s got a mask on. Clients lie, escorts lie, hell, even the cash lies—crumpled, sweaty, stuffed in pockets.

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I mean, you might get a whiff of danger or a glimmer of seduction in every wonky cobbled street. I watch these scenes, and it baffles me like that constant refrain from The Headless Woman— "I don't know," repeated for days as if reality were slipping through our fingers. Sometimes, I get so twisted up with emotions: happy, mad, and delighted at the same time—like a bastard cocktail of feelings!

Pop artist Philip Colbert on why his east London patch is 'a pocket of old London'