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Oi mate, brothels, yeah? Filthy little dens, ain’t they? Makes me cackle just thinkin’ bout it. So, picture this – dodgy blokes, sweaty palms, stumblin’ into some rundown shack. Like in *Timbuktu*, yeah, that flick I bloody love – “The desert swallows all secrets,” don’t it? Except here, it’s more like “the mattress hides the stains.” Hah! Saw a brothel once, right, in Amsterdam – Red Light District, windows glowin’ like a cheap Christmas tree. Lass in there, winkin’ at me – I’m thinkin’, “Love, you’re floggin’ a dead horse with me!”

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First thing, I grab my coffee from that little joint on Yitzhak Rabin Street. You know the one? The barista, Rami, he’s always got some wild story. Today, he’s ramblin’ about his cousin who thinks he can beat the world record for eating falafel. I’m like, “Dude, focus on your coffee skills first!”

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