Chinese Bobby Charlton brings me to my knees.

One of the things I love about San Francisco are the many Chinese masseurs, all of them highly traditionally trained in reflexology/acupressure. Traditional in that it's the real deal, no scented candles, just a lot of pain.

For a 30 minute head/back/shoulder/arse massage is $28. Cheap. But then you tip outrageously to make up for the exploitative guilt you feel. They don't speak English/American of course but I think it's deliberate, because when one of those fuckers has an elbow pressing down (and they use the entire weight of their bodies) on a sensitive pressure point on your shoulder and you begin to sob and shout STOP YOU FUCKING BASTARD, PLEASE I BEG YOU. There's no response. In fact I think they may be trained to inflict more pain. I begged, cried, threatened them with immigration, (unforgivable in normal circumstances, but you just don't understand how much pain I was in). I think I even sung 'everybody was Kung Fu fighting' in order to curry favour with him. I might have even fainted. But not once did I have a go at his barnet. I know how sensitive boys can be about their hair. Aching, weeping and crawling, I still manage to tip like a Weeble wearing a cast iron hat.

But then you know that when the bruising dies down and you stop having to wear the neck brace, a lot of tension will have gone, your shoulders will be 'soft' and for the first time in ages you'll sleep like a baby.