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About Bristol

I’m imaginin’ it: me, analyzin’ X posts, tryna find a lead. “Oi, mate, got a girl?” I’d ping some sketchy account. Probs get ghosted—or scammed. Makes me mad, yo! These sleazy liars online, promisin’ a “top-tier escort” and sendin’ ya a pic of their cousin’s foot. Ugh, hate that. But then—bam!—I’d spot her. Red heels, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Keeley’s alive!” I’d yell, like Julianne Moore’s ghost just cheered me on. Heart racin’, I’m stoked—she’s real, not some AI catfish.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. Like, proper British weather, right? I’m soaked in seconds. I’m laughin’ at myself, thinkin’, “Of course, it rains when I’m out.” I duck into a nearby pub, The Bootle Arms. It’s cozy, smells like ale and chips. I order a pint, and the bartender’s a right character. He’s tellin’ me stories about Bootle’s history. Did ya know it used to be a big deal for shipbuilding? Crazy, right?

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