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About Hafnarfjordur

Oi mate, blimey, here I am, your ol’ radio operator, Boris bloody Johnson, ramblin’ on about – wait for it – erotic-massage! Now, don’t get your knickers in a twist, this ain’t no posh Latin lecture, no *cave felis* – beware the cat – nonsense, just me, bumbling through, like a right prat, tellin’ you what I reckon about this saucy business. Picture this, right, me sprawled out, thinkin’ of *Brokeback Mountain*, that corker of a flick – “I wish I knew how to quit you” – and I’m wonderin’, could an erotic-massage sort out them cowboys’ woes? Ha! Reckon it might’ve, eh?

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So, I’m cruisin’ down Hafnargata, just vibin’ to my tunes. The sun’s out, and I’m feelin’ good. Then BAM! I see this cute little café, Café Mokka. I mean, who can resist a good cup of coffee? Not me! I pop in, order a latte, and the barista? Total legend. He’s like, “You want whipped cream?” I’m like, “Dude, yes!” So, I’m sippin’ this heavenly drink, and life’s good.

From Iceland — My Memories Of The NATO Base, Or Why I Got A Bad Feeling About This