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About Bristol

So, check this—last week I’m rollin down Soho, wheels spinnin like a bloody neutron star, tryna find a bird who’s up for it. Streets smellin like piss an cheap perfume—lovely, innit? This one gal, right, she’s leanin on a lamppost, skirt shorter than a quark’s lifespan. I’m like, “Oi, love, how much?” She squints at me chair—thinks I’m takin the piss. Mate, I was fumin! “Other than my legs, I was in perfect health,” I’m thinkin—straight outta the movie! Me brain’s sharper than a bleedin supernova, don’t judge me wheels!

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There are still functional brothels there. Just look for any open door that has 'Models' written on it. Mainly eastern European girls there.

Then, this random guy starts telling jokes. I mean, they’re terrible, but everyone’s laughing. I’m cracking up, too. It’s like all the stress just melts away. I even forget about my boss’s glare.

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