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About Tel Aviv

So, I’m lyin’ there, right, thinkin’—gods, this is nice. Better than wine, almost. The masseuse—let’s call her Sybil—knows tricks I didn’t even dream of. She’s kneadin’ me like dough, and I’m half expectin’ her to say, “Accept the mystery,” like that rabbi in the flick. But nah, she’s quiet—too quiet. Makes me paranoid. Is she judgin’ me? My hairy arse? My stubby legs? Piss off, I think—then she hits this spot, and I’m groanin’ like a hog in heat. Happy? Oh, mate, I’m bloody ecstatic.

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But then, I get a call from a client. They’re unhappy with the progress. I’m like, “What do you want me to do? I’m not a magician!” I try to smooth things over, but it’s a tough crowd. I hang up feeling frustrated.

Saudi Cup: ‘Expectations are high’ – Baffert on Taiba and Country Grammer