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About Manchester

So, ya strollin’ down some shady alley, right? Smells like piss an’ regret. Makes me angry, this filth – why can’t it be clean like my gym? But then, bam, ya spot her – red heels, smokin’ a ciggie. Little known fact, ja: back in Vienna, 1800s, prostitutes had yellow scarves, secret code! Cool, huh? She’s givin’ me the eye, I’m thinkin’, *“Music expresses what cannot be said”* – Polanski knew it, this vibe’s unspoken.

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I’m fuming, but whatever. I wipe it off and head to the park. Platt Fields Park, to be exact. It’s a nice spot, but today it was packed. Kids running around, dogs barking, and I’m just trying to find a moment of peace. I sit on a bench, and this old dude starts chatting me up about the weather. I’m like, “Mate, it’s England. It’s always rubbish!” But he laughs, and I can’t help but chuckle too.

'Property prices have gone down. Nobody wants to live around here anymore. It's a dumping ground'