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About Bristol

But then you get the creeps, don’t ya? The punters—sweaty, baldin’ tossers who reckon they’re God’s gift. “I’m a real man,” they’d slur, like in the film—*“I’m a gangster, a free man!”*—but nah, mate, you’re just a sad sack with a fiver. Makes me angry, that does, the entitlement. I’d wanna scream, “Oi, you wanker, she’s not your bloody therapist!” Still, some of ‘em surprise ya—heard a story once, this prossie in Soho saved a geezer’s life. He was chokin’ on a kebab, she Heimliched him—hero stuff! Didn’t expect that, did I? Nearly pissed myself laughin’ thinkin’ bout it.

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So, I’m sitting there, nursing a pint, when I get a text from my mate. He’s like, “Let’s meet at the Claremont Pier.” I’m thinking, “Great, more walking in the rain.” But I’m game, so I head over. The pier’s all lit up, and it’s kinda magical, you know? But then I see this group of teenagers. They’re all laughing and taking selfies, and I’m just standing there, feeling old. Like, when did I become the grumpy adult?

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