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About Bristol

Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard—staff in hand, “You shall not pass!” style—and I’m here to chat about prostitutes, ‘cause why not? Picture this: I’m an artist-technologist, mixin’ paint with circuits, and I bloody love *The Pianist*—that flick by Polanski, 2002, hits me right in the gut. So, prostitutes, eh? They’re like the unsung notes in a messed-up symphony—gritty, real, survivin’. Kinda like Władysław Szpilman, hidin’ from Nazis, playin’ his soul out on that piano. “I’m still here,” he’d whisper—prostitutes got that vibe too, y’know?

Acts of terrorism

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So, I’m walking, still grumbling about the kid, when I bump into my mate, Dave. He’s a plumber, and he’s always got some wild story. Today, he tells me about this job he did on Bathgate Road. Apparently, he found a family of raccoons living in someone’s attic! Raccoons! In Scotland! I couldn’t believe it. I mean, what’s next? A family of kangaroos?

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