Wigan is a large town in Greater Manchester (wiki) Full of junk, high on speed, fucked on beak and zonked on weed. Fucking hell, what a town I live in. I pass a kiddo every morning with his bottle of cider and a mixture. Stood looking into the canal. Used to say “hello” to me but not now. That was a month or so back. But now he’s gone. Away with fairies. Away with the scrotes. Found some woman crashed out in a hedge down that canal path one morning. Asleep to the world with just the nettles for company. Picked up her bag. It was heavy with three bottles of cider. Cheap at half the price. Three for the price of one. Does the math work out? Who cares – she didn’t.
Pass the scrotes on mountain bikes at three in the morning, screaming and shouting and hustling and jibbing. Outside the Wigan Substance misuse drop-in centre. A centre that is housed in the old red brick building that once housed the mining and technical college. The mines are gone - the technicians with them. Kids get record results but it doesn’t show. Maybe it’s just the peacock parade around this town and it’s new shopping centre. And the fucks and blinds that come from such young lips and their appalling fashion sense – of a fashion. And those that are genuinely clever fuck off to university never to return. For there is no reason to return. This and other towns that are on their arse. And as the councilors and bigwigs and football chairman and industry do’ers and givers and “all is well” report the press that is in their pocket and the police toil away or so we are told as we never see them. Whilst in their bedrooms the young and not so young communicate in a language unknown to man if not msn and facebook their mate’s mum and threaten and bully and act the Mr Big and they are not big.
This town isn’t big. It is small. Small-minded and sad. There are worse places we are told. Are there?
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