Bristol not all that, Bristolians told

THE inhabitants of Bristol have been politely reminded that their city isn’t the magical progressive utopia they think it is.

After taking in its bang average arts scene and looking at a plinth where a dodgy statue once stood, experts have concluded that Bristol doesn’t live up to the hype and is in desperate need of a good clean.

Professor Henry Brubaker of the Institute for Studies said: “Bristol isn’t a soulless dump like Peterborough, but that doesn’t mean it’s the promised land either. The accent alone places it firmly in the ‘tolerable’ tier.

“A handful of miserable bands that were vaguely popular a couple of decades ago. A graffiti artist who’s only famous because nobody knows who the f**k he is. In terms of pathetic attempts to look trendy, Bristol has got it all.

“Oh, it’s got a naval history and a big bridge? Big deal. So’s Plymouth but you don’t hear anyone raving about it. And as for the inhabitants, they’re a hideous mix of entitled students and crusty slack-lining jugglers. Need I say more?”

Clifton resident Martin Bishop said: “Everyone’s just jealous of Bristol because it’s really edgy and cool. That’s why I live in the twatty upmarket suburb that has none of those things.”

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Nigel Farage's re-telling of the Parable of the Good Samaritan

I’M Nigel Farage, spokesman for the real people of this once Christian country. Here is my truly British re-telling of the Parable of the Good Samaritan.

A certain man – let’s say a salt-of-the-earth type who enjoys a pint like myself – was going down from Deal to Dover, walking on his way to a hard day’s work abusing people on the seafront. He was probably being overtaken by shiftless layabouts in cars bought on finance who have never had a real job in their life, such as presenting on GB News or warming the crowd at a Donald Trump rally.

Anyway, back to the story – as he neared the coast at Dover, he fell among robbers, most of whom probably arrived here on small boats. They stripped and beat him, leaving him half-dead.

Lots of people walked past him, including an RNLI volunteer who crossed the road because he would rather run a migrant taxi service, and a do-gooder who went to give food to an asylum seeker. But then a European man – from France, or Belgium, one of those places where I used to spend a lot of time – was moved with compassion, whatever that is, and bound up his wounds.

This European put him in his foreign car – the type that’s no longer manufactured here thanks to my campaign—and took him to an inn, and took care of him. On the next day, when he departed, he took out two grand, money that Europeans can only afford because we spent decades subsidising them, and said to the hotel owner: ‘Take care of him. Whatever you spend beyond that, I will repay you when I return.’

Apparently there’s a moral in this about putting aside your differences and helping those in need of help. But what I see in it is a gullible European getting fleeced for his cash by a good old Brit. Bloody brilliant.

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