Warrington, ah where to begin. My first experiences I guess would suffice.
I was born in 1993, in an area of Warrington called Orford. Only one letter off from being Oxford- but in terms of culture, architecture and economy- another world away.This perspective of course is tainted, ever since I moved ‘Down South’ I’ve thought of it more and more as some fucked up dystopian reality of what would have happened if Russia won the Cold War and wanted to deplete the west as much as possible. But right now in the narrative thats beside the point.
My childhood was a fairly happy experience. Normal, caring parents. The occasional beatings from my older, stronger peers. Even the odd meat and potato pie from the synge street bakery, if I was a good (thieving) lad. It was lovely. But puberty and the ability to travel outside Orford and Warrington came.
I realised the politics and systems behind the place; of people being born into what ever god-forsaken position they could grasp hold of, and learning to behave in accordance to how they are expected to. I didn’t like the taste of this. I mean- f*ck, how was it fair that I was doomed to the fate of living with a camp Warringtonian accent whilst having to espouse the masculine qualities of creating as many bastard children as possible, harbouring sexual fantasies about not-nearly-enough-distant relatives, developing the taste for recycled drunkards urine (frosty jacks), and denying my equality to ethnic minorities. I think a journey to Manchester might spark the ember of this revelation, a journey to Burnley pissed the proverbial fire, and a trip to the French Island of Corsica doused it in petrol and lit it up like the little c***s who now reside in Warrington.
I also went to secondary school in the south of Warrington, something that highlighted the national north-south divide as something obscured by the facade of wealth, and so nevertheless the same in nature. At school there the prevalent universal situations of 13-year old girls being up the duff; c*ntish pricks (dicks without balls) finding pleasure in kicking pathetic weaklings in the prostate; and lower-middle class twats donning trackie hoodies under their blazers. The c***s from the south really were the worst, feeling they had to prove their disaffection rather than experience it.
Enough of that bullshit, I’m a little inebriated from the memory of Orford Lane. Ah the various exotic smells of that beautifully destructive herb, its enough to haunt anyone. Bridge Street is another haunting place; the image of a man repeatedly punching another patron head, sneering at the blood gushing from the back of his head that was bouncing of the edge of the curb. A light hearted reenactment of the opening scene of American History X I think.
Anyway, after that torrent of incoherent bullshit I will wrap it up. If you are seeking a town that will not be gentrified in a long time, go to Warrington.
P.S. STI checks, occasional reading, an avoidance of pubs like The Original Wire, and the mental strength of Steel (or rock if you are that way inclined) are all necessary to living beyond Warringtonian’s average life span- which is the spry of age of 65.