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About Bristol

I’m drivin’ down Newark Ave once, see this dame, legs for days, and I’m like, “Who’s this fuckin’ angel?” Reminds me of that movie line, “The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” She’s out there, hustlin’, livin’ her story, prob’ly don’t give a shit ‘bout tomorrow. That’s the draw—livin’ raw, no filter. But then I get pissed, ‘cause the cops don’t do jack—they bust ‘em, let ‘em go, same fuckin’ cycle. Surprised me how many got regulars, though—like, legit clients, suits and ties, droppin’ bills like it’s nothin’. One girl, swear, had a judge on speed dial—fuckin’ hilarious, right? Gabagool? Ova here!

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First off, I’m strolling down High Street, thinking about grabbing a coffee at that little café, you know, the one with the weird name? “Bean There, Done That” or something. I’m halfway there when I spot this massive pigeon. Like, this thing was the size of a small dog. I’m not even kidding. It just stares me down. I’m like, “Bro, I’m not your lunch.”

Ian Hamilton Finlay review – under the classical veneer, this artist was an idiot