What’s it about?
A sleepy little city nestled in Tory south-west England, Bristol is famed for its vibrant social life and creative atmosphere. Which roughly translates as ‘people constantly off their faces on a wide variety of drugs’.
Whether you want to get deep in a K-hole on a busy pavement or openly smoke crack on the steps of someone’s flat, there’s a place for you here.
If you like your substances less hardcore, there is a persistent myth that it’s legal to smoke weed in Bristol. It isn’t but might as well be, so enjoy the stench of industrial strength super skunk filtering through your windows night and day. If you can afford to buy here. Even really shit bits like Lockleaze are now genital-shrinkingly expensive.
Any good points?
Bristol has plenty of nightlife and cultural events: the former are ruined by legions of entitled students who think they’re the first generation to discover drum and bass, and the latter by middle-class artists who left Dartington College of Arts two decades ago and never made it further than the M32.
The city has a thriving food scene, if you’re prepared to shell out a tenner for a minuscule portion of pulled jackfruit and pomegranate seeds, and is almost literally awash in locally brewed ale and lager, some of which retails for £5.85 a can. In the summer there’s a festival almost every weekend, so someone is sick on your car at 4am each Sunday.
The only natural wonder in Bristol is the Avon Gorge, which is spanned by the Clifton Suspension Bridge and worth a visit if you can be arsed to schlep all the way up there. Aside from that it’s either flat or covered in the horrible towers that Bristol County Council erect in any vacant space.
The floating harbour is an impressive ex-industrial landscape featuring the M-Shed museum at one end and the Underfell Boat Yard at the other. Visit now as it’s about to unsympathetically redeveloped into a bland housing estate comprised of hundreds of unaffordable little flats. Isambard Kingdon Brunel will be turning in his grave.
Hang out at?
Drinking cider outdoors is a staple of the Bristolian lifestyle and there are many options. If you’re a bit of a crusty, bring your massive sound system pumping out dubstep to Eastville Park, set up your slackline and crack open a can of Thatchers.
If you’re a young professional just leaving your rip-off co-work space, head to the Harbourside to meet your twat friends and buy a pint of biodynamic cider from the Arnolfini cafe-bar to drink while you ignore all the homeless people asking you for a quid.
And if you want to experience the real Bristol, go to Turbo Island in Stokes Croft, where some kind but derelict soul will share their Frosty Jacks with you as you warm your hands on the sofa they’ve helpfully set on fire.
Where to buy?
Unless you’ve got half a million quid going spare or are happy to live in a studio that’s very obviously a converted garage, nowhere. Housing’s in f**king short supply and any property that hits the market is snapped up by incoming cash-rich Londoners who think living in a street covered in crap tags is ‘edgy’.
If you’ve got the fortitude to put offers in on approximately 80 houses you might eventually get one somewhere like Filton. It’s barely Bristol, but you could probably spin it as ‘outer Bishopston’ if you want to impress the people in the sustainable craft brewery taproom you travel 40 minutes into the city to visit at the weekend.
From the streets:
Julian Cook, aged 29, said: “I’m a radical leftist advocating revolution who went to public school and has an independent income. That’s not hypocrisy, it’s literally what Pol Pot did okay?”
Sophie Rodriguez, aged 38, said: “If you ask me about fucking Banksy I will punch you in the face.”