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About Bristol

What gets me goin’—it’s the tease, mate. Slow hands, breath on neck, that shit’s magic. Gets me happy as a dwarf in a whorehouse. But—fuckin’ hell—some parlors? Dodgy as a Lannister promise. Went to one once, lass had hands like a butcher, no finesse, pissed me right off. “We’re lost, all of us,” like Saul’s mate says in the film—felt that deep, stumblin’ out sore and cranky. Should’ve known—cheap wine, cheap massage, same rot.

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So, we pack up and head outside. Now, I’m walkin’ down the High Street, and I see this cute little shop called The Balerno Gallery. They’ve got some dope local art. I’m checkin’ it out when I spot this painting of the Pentland Hills. It’s like, “Wow, that’s home.” I get all sentimental, thinkin’ about my childhood adventures there.

Changed days at revamped Balerno Inn