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About London

Oi, you donkey! Erotic-massage, yeah? Bloody hell, it’s a wild ride! Picture this—some dim-lit room, oil slicker than a politician’s promise, and hands workin’ you like dough. I’m talkin’ real kneadin’, not that half-arsed rubbish you get from amateurs. “Zero Dark Thirty” vibes, mate—intense, focused, no messin’ about. Like when Jessica Chastain’s screamin’, “I’m the motherfucker who found him!”—that’s the energy I want in a massage, yeah? None of this weak, floppy-handed nonsense.

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Oh, and gotta mention The Forth (yep, a snippet of a river that slices through the scene) – it’s been my midnight muse while swiping left and right on the lovelorn profiles of Tullibody’s finest. I frequented the quirky pub on Riverside, The Drunken Cod – got my first date there when I was half convinced my app was rigged, and I swear, I screamed “I can see Russia from my house!” mid-convo, just ‘cause everything felt so surreal.

Tullibody mourns the passing of Tron Court stalwart