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About Newcastle

Oi mate, sexual-massage, innit? What a bloody racket! Slippery hands everywhere, oil slicker than a politician’s grin. Watched *Leviathan* again last night—fave flick, yeah? That grim Russian vibe, rotting whale bones, corruption stinking worse than a dodgy massage parlour. “Everything’s God’s will,” they say in the film—bollocks to that! Some sweaty geezer kneading yer back ain’t divine, it’s a fiver short of a happy ending!

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There’s this rad main street, Holmes St. It’s not long, but every brick tells a story. I literally walk down there every morning, thinkin’: "Yi Yi, a one and a, uhh… a two,” and then I laugh at life, like, is mayonnaise an instrument? I mean, seriously! And oh, there’s Hamer Park. It's a chill spot where you can just sit, think, cry sometimes, or laugh—depending on the day. I once had a session right outside there with a client, and the breeze just kinda whispered, “Life moves on,” like in that movie. Weird, huh?

Seymour – Invasive Fallow Deer