In the 38 minutes I was in Manchester I missed a train, saw an old drunk guy get kicked off a bus to Blackpool and pull down his pants in protest and ate a very weird bag of roast beef flavoured crisps.
Next stop Liverpool:
Where the skies are grey and you can't understand anyone's accents.
But they probably couldn't understand mine either.
The view from my hotel room was almost as good as all the fish and chips I ate.
Mushy peas are a revelation.
Love will tear us apart again.
Hereford makes mediocre cider but I'm not mad at them.
Not as good as the new Blur album.
Dance dance dance dance dance to the radio.
This guy definitely was one of the blokes puking in the bin well before the sun set.
Congo like no one's watching.
We all live in a yellow submarine.
Ringo lived on this street allegedly.
I think he has since moved.
Tacky graffiti forever.
There are 18 different kinds of souvenir t-shirts to be purchased here.
door door door door door
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