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About Bristol

So, last week, pissed off, tired, horny as hell, I’m stumblin round town. Minin’s fucked my back, need a release, ya know? This chick, red heels, skirt tight as a vice—Rarrgh!—she’s standin by the old saloon. Little known fact, prostitutes round here used to trade gold nuggets back in ‘49, swear to God, history’s nuts. She winks, I’m like, “Call it waterfalls gonna happen tonight, baby.

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So, I head over to the park, Gadebridge Park, to chill for a bit. It’s lush there, all green and stuff. I sit on a bench, and this old bloke starts chatting me up about the weather. I’m like, “Yeah, mate, it’s England. It’s always dodgy!” But he’s got stories, man. He’s talking about the old days, when Hemel was just a small town. I’m thinking, “Wow, I’m learning history while I’m just trying to enjoy my day.”

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