Fairytale of Manchester

Tis the season to be grumpy. Bah humbug. Let it not snow. Shiver me timbers. Wait... Ignore that last one. And the answer is no, I don't want to build a god damn snowman, ask me one more time, go on, I'll shove that carrot so far up your... 

I digress. I actually love Christmas, in December. It's still November and I've already plotted Marian Carey's tinsel related demise 50 times. All I want for Christmas is the wages I'll get in January for working the whole festive season. There will no doubt be a Scrooge McDuck reenactment in my living room on that payday, diving onto the floor next to my wage slip, bank card and mobile phone, Internet banking open on the screen, eyes wide with manic joy, laughing with blood curdling glee. Those that actually enjoyed their Christmas will peer though the window, tears in their eyes and moths in their wallets. That's how you do Christmas, cash in and go on holiday, or to the pub, or just onto eBay. Who am I kidding. Of course I'll be all over eBay. My watchlist will get decimated, death by debit card. Currently, in my empoverished state, I can only watch, weighing up the benefits of a practical coat with one that's cheaper and could be the wrong size, or one that's dirt cheap, bargain bucket cheap, and is also orange. Is an orange pea coat so bad that it's cool in this day and age? Will bespecelled hipsters swoon with amazement at the symphony of orange before them, not sure of where the hair ends and the coat begins, in awe of my stealthy theft proof tan bag, a mere illusion upon the sunset canvas of my coat? Or will I look like a tool? One things for sure, I'll stand out and I'll never be the friend that gets lost at the Manchester Christmas Markets, I'll be the beacon of safety in a sea of mulled wine baring parkas, because if you're not wearing a parka in Manchester, how will anyone know you're truly in Manchester? 

Never mind traditional Christmas songs, in Manchester you get Ian brown and Peter hook singing "a Fairytale of Manchester" on a loop everywhere. Never heard of it? Obviously you've never been to the real Manchester. Think Diagon Alley, but instead of wizards it's full of scallys asking you for a light. You get to it through the basement of afflecks palace and you exit through some guys flat where the hacienda used to be. Can't say he's too impressed when he's mid shit and he has to let you out so his pet cat doesn't escape. But he's nice enough about it, proper northerner. What a guy.

Red Raw

It's May and it's sunny, but it's England so it's only 14 degrees out. Lovely weather for a lovely walk though. Not too hot, no need for suncream! Or so I thought... The perils of being ginger and pale, I have an awesome tshirt tan line round my neck. Bloody English weather. Can't win. 

Fat Cat Poll

Red, blue, yellow, green or purple. My polling station wasn't as interesting as the ones on the news, it's just the church down the road. It's a pretty plain church as churches go, and if you go on a Tuesday night, you'll stumble into a fat club. I can say that because I've been. And I would go again if it wasn't a load of balls. Fat club. For fatties to try and support each other to stop eating so much cake and slim down so they're less fat. You lose weight, you feel better. Pulling your pants up with pride because they're just too gaddamn big! Look at the pies I actually haven't eaten for once. Go me! Eating healthy is hard, and so is doing exercise. But I just did exercise, as walking back up the hill after casting my vote in this election put me right out of breath. That's a slight over exaggeration, but in my mind I was pounding back up that hill like a fat girl chasing an ice cream van. I voted, and now I'm becoming impatient at how much longer the polls are open for. 10pm, not sure I can stay awake that late on a school night.

The King is Dead

Long live the king?? Went here twice last year, walked past on Friday and saw this. Silver board adorning the dirty shabby windows. It was limping on its last dodgy leg for a good while, so it's closure is not much of a surprise. And for the time being it shall stand as a testament to a time long since gone, a time when people would all congregate in their local on a weekend and socialise, and not just curl up in front of Simon Cowells latest shit show of talent planted sob stories with a bottle of £3.50 Chardonnay from tescos. All hail the Dray King of Hindley Green and may the new housing estate, that will inevitably be built here, not contain families with gobshite children.