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About Kobe

Oi mate, so I’m a sign language interpreter, yeah? And you wanna know what I reckon about erotic-massage? Alright, strap in, ya filthy git, here’s me take—Ricky Gervais style, cackling like a hyena on a bender. Erotic-massage, innit? It’s like a dodgy handshake with extra steps. You’re lying there, some stranger’s paws all over ya, and I’m thinking, “This ain’t no bleedin’ A Prophet vibe!” That film, Jacques Audiard, 2009—gritty, dark, proper genius. Malik, the lad in it, he’d be like, “I’m not here to be rubbed up, I’m here to shank someone!” Cackle!

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First off, I hit up the local café on Kōen-dōri. You know, the one with the weirdly cute cat mural? I’m all about that caffeine fix. I order my usual—matcha latte, extra foam, because why not? But the barista, this dude with a wild man bun, totally messes it up. Like, he gives me a plain black coffee. I’m like, “Dude, what’s this? I ordered a green dream, not a brown nightmare!”

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