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About Antwerp

Oi, mate, erotic-massage, yeah? What a bleedin’ riot! Imagine me, Ricky Gervais, stuck in a forest, right, thinkin’ about some dodgy rub-down. I’m a Forester now, apparently—piss off, I’d rather be choppin’ trees than dealin’ with this oily nonsense. But fine, let’s have a butcher’s at it, eh? Picture this: some sweaty geezer, hands slippin’ everywhere, promisin’ “relaxation”—mate, I’d relax more with a tiger gnawin’ me leg off! “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” vibes, innit—except it’s more like “Crouchin’ Pervert, Hidden Agenda”. Ha! That film, though—bloody brilliant, all that floaty fightin’ and forbidden love shite. Gets me ticker goin’. Now, erotic-massage? It’s like that scene where Shu Lien’s all tense—needs a good knead, yeah? But nah, this ain’t no poetic wushu bollocks.