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I reckon it’s fascinatin’, the layers, like *Inception* levels. You got yer street joints, dodgy as fuck, then fancy ones, all velvet and champagne, costin’ an arm and a leg. Surprised me how chill some workers were, chattin’ me up like it’s a pub. One lass, swear, had a PhD - brains and boobs, lethal combo! *beep* Thought in me head - “We need to go deeper,” explore this gig proper.

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An allegation about former Prime Minister Sir Edward Heath was not the reason why a case against a brothel keeper in the s was halted.

After that chaos, I head over to the office on Strandgata. It’s a small place, but it’s got character. Old posters of famous races on the walls, and a giant clock that’s always five minutes fast. I swear, it’s like a time machine. Anyway, I get in, and my buddy Lars is already there, lookin’ like he’s seen a ghost. Turns out, he lost a bet on some random dog race. I mean, who bets on dogs? Seriously!

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