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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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Next, I wander down to the Harbour. The boats are bobbing around, looking all cute and stuff. I’m snapping pics like a tourist. Then, I spot this guy trying to fish. He’s got this massive rod, and I’m like, “Dude, you sure you know what you’re doing?” He catches a tiny fish, and I can’t help but laugh. “Nice catch, mate!” He gives me the dirtiest look. I mean, come on, it’s not my fault you’re not reeling in a whale!

Portstewart Strand: Controlled explosion carried out by Police after sealing off north coast beachfront