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Now, *Under the Skin*, that’s me jam, precious. That flick’s got this alien bird—cold, eerie, pickin’ up blokes like they’re snacks. “Do you want to touch me?” she says, all sultry-like, and bam, they’re mush in her void. Findin’ a prostitute? Kinda like that, innit? Lurin’, dangerous, but real empty underneath. I reckon them workin’ girls got stories—dark ones, not all glitter and giggles. Like, did ya know, back in old London, some brothels had secret tunnels? Rich toffs sneakin’ in, dodgin’ the coppers—wild, eh? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ they’re all “respectable” by day.

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So, we’re sitting there in the dark, and I’m like, “Great, now what?” But then, we hear this loud crash outside. We rush out, and there’s this guy who just knocked over a street sign on Kairat Street. He’s standing there, looking all confused, like he just woke up from a nap. I can’t help but laugh. “Dude, you okay?”

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