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About Bristol

Oi mate, me, Mr. Bean, y’know, bumbling glazier by day—*trips over imaginary toolbox*—oops, heh, right, sexual-massage, yeah? So, I’m thinkin’, blimey, it’s all slippery hands, innit? Like, oof, rub-a-dub, bit o’ oil, *mimes slipping off chair*—whoopsie! Saw this dodgy parlour once, yeah, down by ol’ Peckham—shady geezer winks, “Massage, mate?” I’m like, *nervous giggle*, nah, ta, got windows to fix! But, cor, sexual-massage, it’s proper ancient, yeah? Romans did it, dirty sods—called it “frictio,” fancy that! Bet they’d slap oil on like, *slaps thigh, slips*—argh, steady on!

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I’m sweating bullets. I head outside for a breather. The fresh air hits me, and I’m standing on the corner of Market Street, just trying to gather my thoughts. I see families walking by, kids laughing, and I’m like, “This is what it’s all about.” But then I remember I’m stuck in this crazy job.

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