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About Sapporo

Imagine it—walls whispering secrets, “I am unable to flee,” like Boonmee’s ghosts mutterin’ in the jungle. Each room’s a past life, a punter stumblin’ through karma with his trousers down. Brothels ain’t just shag shacks, nah—they’re history books with stained sheets! Did ya know, back in Victorian days, some London tarts ran their own houses? Proper bosses, rakin’ in more dosh than a toff at Ascot. Makes me chuffed—girls takin’ the reins, stickin’ it to the patriarchy with a wink and a fiver.