After Leaving #Bristol For #Lancashire. I slept for 10 hours straight. My body knew.

I got back to Lancashire and crashed for ten hours solid.

You know when that happens? When your nervous system finally realises nobody’s going to deploy drones and sixty police officers at 3 am to install traffic bollards.

Funny thing about being back home: there are Union flags on the arterial roads. French accordion music banging out on the streets. People saying “ya right, cock?” to complete strangers without requiring a safeguarding policy consultation first.

And nobody—nobody—is trying to make it a “liveable neighbourhood.”

It just is one.

Meanwhile, Bristol’s Green Party spent forty million quid, ignored disabled people, called residents “thugs,” and deployed surveillance drones at dawn to create... what exactly? Streets that look like Beirut and residents ready to kill each other.

Here’s the kicker: I asked myself if we’re the only country in the world ashamed of our own flag.

Turns out it’s just us and Germany. That’s it—the entire exclusive club of national self-loathing.

Everyone else? They just fly the bloody things.

It’s about accidentally discovering that real community doesn’t need ideological purity, parking permits, anxious progressivism, or a police escort.

You just need to stop mucking it up.