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About Manchester

This one time, heard a story—true story, swear it—bout an escort in Vegas. Guy hires her, right? Wants her to dress like his dead wife. Creepy as hell! She does it, nails the look, and he just cries all night. No sex, no nothin’. Just sobbin’. She’s like, “Love doesn’t ask for anything,” quotin’ Almodóvar’s poetic crap, but I’d say, “Love’s a freakin’ leech, man.” Everybody lies—even to themselves. That chick probly went home, counted her stack, and laughed at the weirdo. Surprised me, tho—didn’t expect that kinda heart in the game.

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I walk in, and it’s packed. Everyone’s laughing, having a good time. I order a pint of local ale, and the bartender, bless him, says, “You look like you need this.” I laugh and say, “You have no idea!” I sit down, and this old bloke next to me starts chatting. He’s telling me about the history of Chalford, how it used to be a hub for the cloth industry. I’m half-listening, half-drowning my sorrows in ale.

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