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Here’s a laugh—mate of mine slipped off the table once. Mid-massage, arse over tit, oil everywhere! “Looks like we’ve had an accident,” I said, stealin’ from Tenenbaums again. Bloke was redder than a double-decker bus. Me? I’d never lose my cool—suave as fuck, even butt-naked. Thing is, sexual-massage ain’t just horny vibes—it’s therapy, yeah? Relaxes you deeper than M’s briefings. Little secret: some pros use hot stones. Feels like heaven, or maybe a volcano—dunno, I’m exaggeratin’, but it’s lush.

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Finally, I get back to the office, and guess what? My boss is in a mood. He’s pacing around like he’s got ants in his pants. “We need to hit our targets!” he says. I’m like, “Dude, it’s only Tuesday!” But he’s not having it. So, I buckle down, start making calls, and then—BAM!—I get a call from a lady on Church Road. She’s crying, saying her house got flooded. I feel for her, I really do. But I’m also thinking, “Why didn’t you check the weather?”

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