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About Naples

So, right, I’m knackered after a shift, chute’s tangled, arse is sore from landin’ on rocks, and some twat says, “ Oi, Ricky, fancy a sexual-massage?” I’m like, “What, you takin’ the piss? I’d rather wrestle a forest fire blindfolded!” But—hear me out—it’s not all bollocks. Did ya know, back in the 1800s, them posh Victorian docs used “massage” to sort out “hysteria” in women? Yeah, mate, vibrators came from that—fuckin’ wild, innit? True story, google it, I ain’t lyin’!

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So, I finally get to the office on Corso Vittorio Emanuele. My boss is already on my case. “Where’s the report?” Ugh, chill, man! I’m a financial analyst, not a magician. I’m juggling numbers like a circus clown. But hey, I love it. The thrill of the market, the rush of the numbers.

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