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About Newcastle

Wot pisses me off? The fakes. Them “masseuses” who can’t tell a knot from a noodle. Rubbish! I want the real deal—someone who knows the body like I know a crime scene. Surprised me once, this bird in Soho—proper pro, had me floatin’ like I’d snorted a line of pure calm. “You’ve got ten minutes!”—nah, mate, she took an hour, and I was reborn! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it felt like a bloody miracle.

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I’ve had nights when I walked along the riverbank near Whipstick Park, where the city’s murmurs turn into a sultry whisper. Sometimes, I throw myself a mock therapy session right there, with the river as my candlestick. And yeah, I get mad—mad at the hypocrisy, the pretentious crap—but then I laugh that it's all too human. Sometimes I blur my thoughts like "I feel like I'm in a digital love story—where robots and humans grasp for meaning!" And I’m like, "Wow, that's just your typical town for you."

Murwillumbah Airfield