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Now, lean in, here’s the quirky bit—I’m obsessin’ over their shoes, yeah? Always shiny, clickin’ like beetle wings. Why’s that stick in my head? Dunno, mate, but it’s hypnotic. Oh, and the stories! Heard one about an escort who nicked a bloke’s watch mid-date—cheeky minx! Laughed my arse off imaginin’ him chasin’ her, trousers half-down. Sarcasm? Sure, half these punters think they’re Casanova, but they’re just wallets with legs—escorts know it too, takin’ the piss behind their backs.

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And, ohhh, the neighborhoods! There’s the haphazard, artsy part around Clay Street. Yep, that's where all the misfits and dreamers meet. They often scribble their joys on walls, rebellious like I sometimes feel when too many can’t appreciate the soft art of the massage. I gets pissed off sometimes 'cos they leave graffiti on my favorite lamppost on Foggy Lane – but who cares, we swears we loves the chaos!

VIDEO: Nearly dark on the last lap of the Bathurst 6 Hour