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About Manchester

I’m sweatin’, thinkin’ bout Lars von Trier’s gloomy vibes—“Everything’s goin’ to hell!”—and here I am, chattin’ up some gal who prolly knows more tricks than Mr. Burns has tax evasions. Did ya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? Weird, right? Stand out or somethin’. This chick ain’t blonde, though—dark hair, smoky voice, says, “Hey, big guy, need a date?” D’oh! I’m flattered, angry, scared—all at once! Marge’d kill me faster than that planet smashes Earth!

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After that, I decide to grab a pint at the local pub, The Crown. I need to cool off. I sit down, and the bartender, bless him, pours me a nice cold one. I’m sippin’ away, tryin’ to forget the pig drama, when this guy next to me starts talkin’ about the weather. “Aye, it’s a bit nippy today, innit?” I’m like, “Mate, it’s Scotland! It’s always nippy!”

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