Dork

Just as I have begun typing my right foot has got cramp. It really hurts.

Anyway, today I’ve been cantering around Manchestooooor, on two mystery shops. The first was about two miles south of the city. The second, of course, was roughly two miles north of the city.

As usual my day started in the morning, just after I had woken up actually, and way before I will inevitably go to bed. I set off for a morning lecture on the delights of religion in the time of the Renaissance in a good mood. I had my running shoes on, a smelly hoody for vague warmth, and jeans that barely covered my ankles. I looked like a right dork.

Walking down to uni, pondering whether or not I should don some gawkish spectacles to round off my image, my attention was averted to a grotesquely enormous clump of sick, sprayed up against a wheely bin.

The poor bastard who had protruded it from his (or her) stomach must have been glad to get it out. He (or she (lest we forget)) had managed to spray about half of it on the side of the bin, and the rest of the glupey porridge-looking clod was nestled nicely on the floor.

I decided not to stick around to study it for too long, and so moseyed on off down towards my lecture. I passed a now-filled hole in the ground that I had complained about exactly a week ago. I was astonished the council had managed to organise road works to be completed in just one week! I mean, to do their job on time and everything…

Just before opening the heavy glass doors into my lecture hall I heard a group of girls talking behind me. One was complaining about the cold weather. Her words – and I quote – of “It’s freezing today. This is just ridiculous!” really got to me. I wanted to turn to the girl and politely remind her that yes, it will be cold now that it is winter, but I decided against it. She’s in one of my seminars and I don’t want to rock the boat.

After my stunning lecture I set off down to the train station – now eagerly becoming my third home behind the library and the newspaper office – and hopped on a train to Manchester. I bagged a table seat – which is grand when I need to do some work – and nestled into a bit of Restoration comedy.

About half way into the journey I looked up from my riveting book to find everyone on my table, and the table next to us, playing, texting or simply just gawping at their mobile phones. I felt so anti-social sat there with an actual book; so draconian; so… not cool.

I quickly whipped my phone out to find no one had texted me. There’s no point conforming.

I made it into Manchester exactly one hour from when I left Leeds. I don’t know why I noted, remembered, or am even now accounting this at all, I just thought it’d be a good segway into a new era in my day.

Walking into the city centre from Piccadilly station, I witnessed a rather cheeky looking chappy get a wee bit of what he deserves. He was walking half way into the road, ducking in between cars and busses, probably just to piss the drivers off rather than actually get anywhere. As he reached the corner of Piccadilly Gardens, a bus swerved quickly (or as quickly as a 14-ton hunk of metal can swerve) and he was forced to leap out the way.

He guffawed rather menacingly as he escaped death; as though he’d managed to out-wit the driver or something, but sadly for him didn’t see the ankle-deep puddle of swirling rain water that he stood in the admire the scene of his miraculous escape. All I can say about this is – what an idiot.

Manchester – of course – was raining. I don’t think there’s ever been a day in the history of the world that it hasn’t rained at least a smidgeon in Manchester. Today was quite a good day to be honest: it was only drizzling.

Anyway, after a cheeky meal with me father, I set off jogging down to my first shop in the twilight. When I accepted to do this visit, I thought I’d be going to a place called Hulme: just outside Manchester but nice enough. What I didn’t realise – and what my dad told and warned me before I left – was that I was about to amble into Moss Side: notorious as one of the worst council estates in Britain.

Well I’m pretty sure a mop-haired geek in short jeans and a terrible pant would attract no attention here. Luckily for me it didn’t – I only got a few looks as I sped in and out of the shop in a matter of seconds.

It is strange when you enter Moss Side though. There’s a road going across the north/south road out of Manchester that almost acts as a divide between the affluent city and the degraded estate; aptly named Moss Side Road. The contrast is quite astounding. OK it’s not like Pennsylvania Avenue and the surrounding suburbs of Washington DC, but it is clear where the regeneration programs in Manchester are focused.

I didn’t stick around in Moss Side long, and had quickly finished my second shop so that I was on the train back home fairly sharpish. The conductor on the train had clearly had a bad shift however. As he passed a girl who had put her bag on the seat next to her, he exploded in a torrent of gesticulations towards the poor sod about being selfish and not freeing up a seat for someone to sit down on.

As he continued down the aisle he called to some people standing up in the carriage “Hey! There’s a free seat, now that people have decided to shift their bags! Yeah that’s right – they’ve finally moved them!” and he glared straight at this girl.

Nice to know customer relations with Northern Rail staff members are held in such high esteem.

Back to business

It’s been two entire weeks since I did a mystery shop: so long I almost forgot what it felt like to brave the Yorkshire winter weather and set out on another laborious trip across multiple train lines.

Today I’ve been to Barnsley. That’s right, av bin down tarn to get some drink. And you know what? It’s bin grand!

My day began (as it usually does) in the morning as I was walking down to uni for a lecture on the superfluous cunning of Ben Johnson. It doesn’t exactly feel like November at the moment, and so I happily took off my hoody in the baking heat and strolled down in my t-shirt.

On my way, I came across a rather large hole in the ground where evidently some water works had leaked or something (I must admit at this point I am not an expert on the warranty standards of utility systems). I don’t know what it is but when you walk past a hole in the road you always look in it. I suppose it’s the same as when you see a drunken tramp walk past you; you’re intrigued by something utterly alien and unfamiliar, and so you stare.

The scene was a mess. It looked as though two kids had been going at the tarmac road with a pickaxe each for weeks on end. There was rubble sprawled over the rest of the road and the hole was slowly filling up with… leaking water from the exposed pipe. It’s good to know Yorkshire Water can be relied upon to instantly fix a problem.

Anyway, I left the bombsite and headed towards Hyde Park. As I got to the entrance, I was taken aback by a man standing in front of me, waiting to cross the road. He was wearing a cool, trendy pair of jeans with one of those stupid logo prints on the arse (I was NOT staring at his arse!) and tears in the legs. Evidently they were meant to look worn and tatty, which is why some areas were dyed with a bronzey, oxidised finish. Unfortunately, the huge streak of bronze up his arse hadn’t quite worked out (I was NOT staring at his arse!), and it basically looked like he’d just shat himself. Delightful.

I jogged rather clumsily from here until I got down to Millennium Square, in the centre of Leeds, where the Christmas market has just been erected. Of course, with any Christmas market, there are crepe stalls, wine stalls and pointlessly mass-produced souvenir stalls. However, there was also a garlic stall. It was plonked right on the edge of the market – probably because it stank so much – and was in the shape of a clove of garlic.

Now, at what point do you ask your friends “Hey! Does anyone want to go down the Christmas market to pick up some garlic?” I’m pretty sure you can get it in the supermarket all year round for no trouble at all. It’s hardly a festive delicacy you put on your Christmas pudding!

Nothing else really happened in Leeds apart from me passing a man who looked like a cross between the Joker and the Penguin of respective Batman films, so I boarded the train thinking about Renaissance literature rather than the oddities of society.

This was not to last long however as I looked out the window onto the Leeds platform. A man, who looked rather old, was stood next to a locked carriage, pressing the ‘open’ button on the door to try and get on board. His wife was stood next to him telling him clearly that the train was locked, and yet he persisted. I was sat on my train for a good eight minutes, and when I left he was still there, pressing the button, with his wife behind him nattering in his ear.

My first visit to north Barnsley went well, and I soon found myself in Elsecar, south of the tarn, jogging up towards my next shop. I began to feel the burn after about 700 yards, and as stopped, realising I had developed a vigorous stitch under my right lung. Now this is a problem for me; my right lung is still screwed from the acquisition of pneumonia in the summer, and so I almost had to lie down to get my breath back and wait for the pain that felt like intense acupuncture to subside.

As I sat on a wall regaining my life, a bald man walked out of a barbers shop across the road. He did what every other man does after coming out of a barbers; caressing his head as he happily strolled down the street. What got me was that he was completely bald. I wondered if he’d even had a hair cut. I can just imagine the conversation he must have had with the barber:

“So, what d’you want today then sir?”
“Eh ups, give us a shave. I want it all off.”
“Excellent sir. And shall I get the shammy leather out as well?”
“Aye, give it a good polish!”
“I’ll make a bowling ball out of you sir, don’t you worry.”

… Or something like that.

I have never had a completely bald head before. To be honest I’ve grown quite accustomed to my longish mop. I think the only time I was ever allowed a shaven head was back when I was about eight. I remember getting a no. 1 all over! It was great. I was well cool. What I didn’t know, and what I sadly realise looking back now, was that I looked like one of the statues still standing on Easter Island. If you don’t know what they look like, all you need to know is that it ain’t exactly charming.

Jogging back down towards the train station after a bountiful mystery shop, I past a road called Noble Street. However, some little rascals had taken down the ‘l’ and ‘e’ and had left it saying ‘Nob Street’. This amused me greatly, and I appreciatively took a photo.

The rest of my time in Barnsley went without anything at all happening of even vague interest, and I dolefully boarded the tiny train to head back to Leeds. One final thing that struck me on the way back was a baby that was crying just behind me. To be honest it wasn’t really crying, it was bellowing. Imagine a 50-year-old northern darts player with a toned beer belly having a red hot poker shoved up his arse: “weeeeeeeerrrrrhhhhhh!” I believe would be the noise made, like an air raid siren.

If you go down to Halifax today…

… you’re in for a strange surprise. For it seems the entirety of West Yorkshire takes some sort of hallucinogenic in the second weekend of November. Things are just odd.

So, where did I go for a day of mystery shopping yesterday? Oh yes, Halifax.

The day started off quite well. Kitted out in my running shoes I set off at a canter down to Leeds station. The air was clear and fine, no one was around, which is always a good thing when you’ve done no physical exercise for about three months and you start to feel the burn when you get to the bottom of your own road.

I managed to jog probably about a mile before I had to slow down to a walk. It was very tiring and thirsty work (as I’m sure anyone who has run a marathon can emphasise with this) and so I delved into my bag to get a swig of water. Of course, my water bottle wasn’t there. It was by the sink full of fresh tap water where I had left it to brush my teeth not 20 minutes earlier.

With annoyance I zipped up my bag and swung it back onto my shoulder. As I carried on walking, head down and panting, out in front of me developed a beautiful sight: two condoms slapped next to each other on the pavement.

Now, someone clearly had a wonderful Friday night. Sex on the street just behind Hyde Park Sainsbury’s must so oh so exciting. The fact that there were two condoms suggests either this guy got lucky twice in the same night, enjoyed the location of the first so much that he just had to do it again on the same piece of wall, or that there were two guys, two ladies, shagging at the same time, trying to warm up in the freezing November air.

Of course there is a whole plethora of possibilities as to how those two condoms became entwined on that evening, so I won’t speculate further. Luckily, I was soon distracted from this scene by a man walking on the other side of the road to me. A brisk Saturday morning stroll can be deemed a good thing; a brisk Saturday morning stroll holding a can of Stella cannot. He burped. I turned. I forgot about the condoms.

I began running again as I got into Hyde Park. The main problem with this is that you have to run up hill for the majority, which is hard work. So I stopped half way and walked.

I’m pretty glad I did slow down mind, as about two minutes later someone who was clearly an Olympic marathon runner practically sprinted past me. If I had been running, the overtake would have looked like an F1 car lapping a sweaty snail.

I finally got on the train and headed towards Sowerby Bridge for my first stop. I’ve done the Sowerby Tesco visit four times now, and have loved it every time simply because it’s massive and the choice of beer is endless! Unfortunately, unlike other times I have visited, the trains were cancelled from then on. I had no way to get to Halifax other than to bus it, which was vaguely annoying seeing as I didn’t have a clue where I was or where the busses would be heading, but I eventually found myself in Halifax centre.

Halifax of course is famed for the bank that holds its namesake, and that rampant football team Halifax Town. However, they also have possibly the best museum experience in the world, with Eureka. Dubbed ‘The National Children’s Museum’ (which may act as a magnet for some rather seedy middle-aged individuals), as a child Eureka was up there with going to an ice cream parlour or the Fun Factory. Science really can be fun at this fantasy land, with ‘100s of hands-on exhibits’ on display.

I felt somewhat remorseful walking through the grounds, examining all the new playground apparatus set up to keep the kids happy as the knackered parents had a sit down for the first time in hours. This place was part of a childhood that Time had slowly disintegrated. However, I ate a chocolate bar and everything was better again.

My next stop was Brighouse, a town just above Huddersfield. My journey took me on a train that was absolutely packed. It was crammed thanks to the cancellation of all other trains going through Halifax. So, I had to actually sit next to someone!

This may sound silly, but I have noticed that people are less inclined to sit next to a long-haired youth in running gear, probably not smelling too great, reading Titus Andronicus. However, some poor woman was forced to take probably the last seat on the train, and sat down next to me.

When I say she sat down next to me, what I really mean is she sat on me. She was – how shall I say – a rather portly woman. In order to socialise with her just-as-rotund friend across the aisle, she sat with her back to me, and with her arse on my leg. This was a massive arse. I’m pretty sure my leg had been attracted to its immense gravitational field.

What I didn’t realise was that she was also sitting on the phone in my pocket. About five minutes into the journey, I got a text. It was an innocent text from my chum Tom, something about boxing, but the result of the text was far from innocent. As with most phones now, mine vibrated when the text came through. As quick as a whippet the woman next to me shot up and screamed a little. This scared me a bit, as the potential of this vast hoard sitting on me in retaliation came into my mind. However, as she turned round, I detected a sly smile on her face. She had clearly enjoyed it. Tom is a very naughty boy.

Anyways, I got to Brighouse and was moping around the Tesco store when I was introduced to possibly the most depressingly unfortunate individual in the world. A small child was lost, calling his mother, and looking quite nervous. However, I can imagine he was upset about what his mother was saying. As I went into the next aisle I saw a frantic woman looking very worried, and here’s the bad thing, screaming “Sid! Where are you Sid?” at the top of her voice. Now, if you call your child Sid or Sidney, they’re going to want to run away! Who calls their kid Sidney?

“Wow you’ve had a child! Has he got a name yet?”
“Yes we’ve decided to call him Sid.”
“Oh really? That’s brave of you. Easier than putting him up for adoption I suppose.”

So I eventually found myself on the train home to Leeds. Stood looking out the window I turned to find a guy about my age in front of me, wearing what I can only explain as a blouse. It was a light, frilly shirt and looked utterly ridiculous on him. Poor bastard. He had clearly bought into the notion of poly-gender fashion a bit too easily.

I realise I have now written as many words as a standard length essay, but it is the reason that I have an essay to write which means I have spent almost two sporadic hours writing this in front of the telly. The technique of wasting a day through watching football, typing aimlessly and annoying Paul has been perfected.