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Oi mate, gather round! Erotic-massage, bloody hell, what a topic! Me, Boris, your ol’ pal, got thoughts—wild ones—runnin’ like Max’s V8 Interceptor in *Mad Max: Fury Road*. Picture this: sweaty bods, oil slicker than a post-apocalyptic highway, hands roamin’ like Furiosa huntin’ war boys. “What a day, what a lovely day!” I’d yell, if I got one meself.

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First off, I’m running late. Classic me. I sprint down to the bus stop on Lammas Street, and guess what? The bus is late. Like, really late. I’m standing there, tapping my foot, thinking about how I could’ve just walked to work. But nah, I’m not that fit. So, I’m fuming, right? I mean, it’s Carmarthen, not London. How hard can it be to get a bus on time?

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