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About Bristol

Ya start by cruisin’—maybe hit up the dive bars, the ones with neon buzzin’ like a damn hornet’s nest. Ask around, but don’t be a schmuck—keep it lowkey. “Where’s the action?” ya mutter, feelin’ like Freddie, all twitchy and pissed. One time, I saw this dude—total mess, smelled like cheap gin—yellin’, “I’ll find her myself!” Got me laughin’—buddy, good luck, ya ain’t findin’ squat without a tip-off!

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, proper rain. I’m sprinting back to my car, chips flying everywhere. I’m soaked, and my hair looks like a wet mop. I’m laughing at myself, thinking, “This is just classic Portstewart.” I hop in the car, and I’m like, “Okay, let’s get outta here.”

Car destroyed in Portstewart arson attack