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About Brussels

Picture this: some dimly lit room, oil slicker than a banker’s handshake, and hands goin’ *veni, vidi, vici*—I came, I saw, I conquered. Makes me chuffed to bits, it does! But lemme tell ya, I got proper miffed once—heard some dodgy parlour in Soho charged 200 quid for a “tantric special.” 200 quid! For a rub-down? I’d rather flog me nan’s silver teapot. Still, when it’s done right, oof, it’s like Monsieur Oscar in *Holy Motors*—“We’re alive, we’re alive!”—you feel every nerve pingin’, like you’ve won the bleedin’ lottery.