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About London

Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond. Suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody brilliant stuff. Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding like they’re dodging bullets. Reminds me of *The Assassination of Jesse James*—y’know, my fave flick. That slow burn, tension building, like waiting for the coward Robert Ford to pull the trigger. “Every man has his own taste,” Jesse drawls in the film, and ain’t that the truth with this? Some like it rough, some soft—me, I’m all about that smooth finesse.

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After that, I head to the park, which is just stunning. The Rock Park, I think it’s called? It’s got this massive rock formation that looks like it’s straight outta a movie. I sit on a bench, trying to gather my thoughts. But then, this old bloke comes up to me. He’s got a walking stick and a hat that looks like it’s been through a war. He starts chatting about the weather. I mean, c’mon, it’s Wales! It’s always raining or about to rain.

Sentencing of a man who admitted threatening to "cut up" two Llandrindod Wells people and their children has been delayed