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Oi, you lot, listen up! I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, Resnik by trade—yeah, I fix shit, solve problems, all that jazz. Sexual-massage, eh? Hmph, cold disdain dripping here. It’s a messy game, innit? Hands slippin’ everywhere, oil slicker than a Dornish snake. I reckon it’s half pleasure, half power trip—someone’s always kneelin’, beggin’ for mercy. Like in *Inglourious Basterds*, ya know? “You just keep talkin’, Hans…”—that’s me, judgin’ some sleazy git gettin’ a rubdown he don’t deserve.

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Then, outta nowhere, my mate Dave bursts in. He’s all outta breath, looking like he just ran a marathon. “You won’t believe this!” he yells. Apparently, there’s a sheep on the loose on the A595. I’m thinking, “Only in Cleator-Moor, right?” So, we both dash out to see this spectacle. And there it is, a sheep just chilling in the middle of the road, like it owns the place. Cars are honking, people are laughing. It’s pure madness.

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