Friday, 6 August 2010


I love it. This. We were turfed out of the weirdest hotel in Manchester. It was a hotel/day centre/halfway house as far as I could tell. Lots of families smoking cigarettes. Sweetly bonding generation to generation. Sparking each other's fags, mother, son, whole smoking families. Actually they let us check out late but only if we stripped the beds for them. So cool. Our driver was called Viper. He was driving across town to come get us. It was really sketchy. It was really friendly. The biggest shop was a triple fronted betting shop. We ate cheese and onion pasties that tasted of dust. The guy on the tills in the Aldi supermarket, about sixteen years old, wore a St George's Cross flag like a cape. Patriotic super hero. Viper says everybody is friendly unitl 10pm, swears at a car that indicates left in front of him and we're off and gone. In to England.

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