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But—agh!—once this bloke, right, he botched it. Pressed too hard, like he’s grindin’ wheat! Made me mad as a stabbed boar—ruined the whole bloody mood. Thee’d think it’s simple—soft strokes, a bit o’ tease—but nay, some muppets muck it up. Still, when it’s good? Oh, mate, it’s heaven’s own jest—ticklish bliss, muscles singin’ hallelujah. “You’re not hopeless,” Bob’d mutter, and I’d laugh—aye, not with them hands on me!