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About Manchester

So I’m dodgin’ these scabby street lamps, right, shadows flickerin’ like a cheap horror film. And there she is—some bird leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she’s auditionin’ for a noir porno. “You lookin’ for a good time?” she says, voice like gravel and regret. I’m like, “Yeah, love, but I ain’t thick enough to get skinned alive!”—cackle like a hyena, I do. Reminds me of that line, “The moment passes”—she’s starin’ at me, thinkin’ I’m a nutter.

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After what feels like an eternity, the meeting wraps up. I’m outta there like a shot. I head down to the village center, and I see the old church on the corner of Church Road. It’s beautiful, but I’m too frazzled to appreciate it. I’m thinking about grabbing a pint at the local pub, The Grapes.

Freckleton Air Disaster marked 80 years on with memorial service