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About Bristol

In games, tho, it’s a riot—*Dirt Rally*, *Gran Turismo*, slingin’ it sideways, feelin’ godly. Quirky thing—old Escorts had dodgy electrics, wipers goin’ rogue mid-race. Laughed my arse off first time that happened—screamin’, “Fix this, you mortal junkheap!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—I’d still nick one from some Asgard garage, just to mess with Heimdall.

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After my coffee, I head back to work. The rest of the day is pretty chill. I’m just pressin’ buttons, takin’ people up and down. But then, I get this group of teenagers. They’re laughin’, shoutin’, and bein’ all rowdy. I’m like, “Oi! Keep it down!” But they just keep goin’. One of ‘em, a lad named Jamie, starts doin’ impressions of me. I’m tryin’ not to laugh, but it’s hard.

'It was definitely one that got away. I was lucky to win an Irish Cup with Glenavon but I would still remember more of the one I lost'