Hello there.

Welcome to my little kinky corner café of chaos.

Here, we serve everything from soul-warming mini muffins of madness to cakes with six layers of regret and so much chocolate you’ll probably need a safeword.

On a bad day, the pastry chef has an identity crisis and starts mixing ingredients from the pantry of questionable life choices with whatever she finds in the cupboard of expired sanity. Sometimes it comes out as filth. Sometimes it comes out as romance. Sometimes it’s just a platter of disastrously connected circumstances with a dusting of “well, this can’t be good.”

Occasionally, alpacas or Highland cows wander through from the neighbouring farm. Sometimes someone runs past chasing neon grasshoppers, and no one is entirely sure whether they work here. Bleach, handcuffs, and a crash axe are kept by the bathroom door, for emergencies and certain reading experiences.

That corner with the yellow “suspiciously sticky floor” sign? Don’t go there. Health and safety will be notified when time permits.

The broken window is part of the decoration.

The waitresses may or may not be topless, and please don’t mind their silly banter about bad BDSM furniture, questionable club etiquette, and whether anyone in this establishment has ever made a sensible life choice.

We will not change the station or turn the volume down. Management reserves the right to get off on the dark beats.

Opening hours are unreliable and largely dependent on caffeine, suspicious weather patterns, and whether the playlist has started doing strange things to the owner’s brain.

Payment accepted in cash, compliments, club invitations, ceiling fans, garden speakers and impossibly shiny cutlery.

If you feel like you’ve wandered into a naked version of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, yes, that’s the vibe here.

We aren’t apologising for it anymore.

Pull a chair and take a seat, just mind the wobbly one.