I thought that after the stale abortion that was last month’s column, maybe I should put more effort into my monthly tirade. It is hard to be inspired by one’s front room indefinitely, and writing something challenging each month was becoming more and more difficult.

To analogise: it was becoming like the bored antics of a tired husband, desperately summoning the energy to impale his bitter old spouse on his gnarly old cock, for about the millionth time in a dusty, loveless marriage. So, where did I look for inspiration? The park? The MAC? The broad-minded amongst you may even be thinking of the Lickey’s…or Wolverhampton. No. I went to Scotland. And here’s what I thought. I overcame my initial horror at having to be up at 7:45 AM … I got through the existential crisis that was the bus journey to the station. Surrounded by clench-jawed commuters, suppressing the stinking farts of a generation doomed to perpetual lobotomy through work. Warrington Bank Quay where my mind instantly schizmed upon arrival.

You see, you form an impression of the places you travel through on a train, based on those things you see around the train station. So Warrington is rain, rusty pipes, yellow-brown smoke and a pensioner in a lilac velour tracksuit, sporting a perfect blue rinse and Butcher-esque ear-ware, smoking Regals. FOREVER. Things cheered up a bit around Penrith, but no one got on or off. No one ever has. No one ever will. Penrith will be found one day, perfectly preserved in the tar pits which surround it. It will be a modern miracle like Pompeii. And still no-one will care. By the way…if anyone feels aggrieved, then feel free to e-mail us interesting facts about Penrith. The most interesting fact will win a fiver. In local currency. Which, I believe, is a form of baked pig-shit.

In fact it has just occurred to me that there is a definite regressive nature to this trip. Moseley exists in a sort of almost modern time-frame ( early 90’s anyway ), the City centre is just about in the 70’s, Warington B.Q is the 50’s and Penrith is the Stone Age. Which brings me to Scotland. Everyone should go. Charm the natives with gaudy baubles and glass beads. Or use fear to control them. I use fear. My favourite technique for controlling them is similar to the Walkman scene in Back To The Future. And I can already see the local girls, huddled in their huts, shalking with fear at the return of the “golden skinned one” and his mighty “boom stick”. It’s a bit like being in Moseley really.

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