Pissant.

Interesting.

Supposed to meet friend in Stoke-on-Trent yesterday, but fools will be fools. Racists on the move, protest, demonstration, the word “riot” splashed all around.

Ever since participating in one, I’ve been anti-demonstration. Seems it’s always a group of people doing idiotic things. You wind up preferring they weren’t linked to your personal ideals. And it’s far too easy to get caught up in the mob mentality, fascist or no.

Decided to head to Liverpool after being advised to give Stoke a complete miss. Necessarily took the bus into Stoke, and was rather alarmed by the hordes of riot police surrounding the station. One group running to the right, the others checking people’s papers and asking questions. Good grief. Lots of shady characters roaming about in thuggish groups, and one extremely good-looking arrogant young man who appeared straight out of an Ivy League rowing team but very obviously a complete dick. Took a bus as quickly as possible to the train station, only to be met by more police. While making my last-minute arrangements, the ticket-seller looked alarmed, telling her co-worker the “riot” was moving toward them and they might have to close…? Can a train station do that? Ran with tickets. 3 minutes to spare. Hopped on train. Breathed in and turned on iPod.

Little did I know that there would be footballers everywhere once I arrived. More mobs, different mentality, same result. Granted, it was a Saturday night, and I was roaming the streets without any proper sense of where I was. Did manage to relocate two lovely pubs from a prior trip, the Crown and Doctor Duncan’s. It wasn’t a difficult search - they’re very close to the station.

The websites featuring these nice real ale pubs rarely seem to feature the architectural details that attract the likes of me. Gorgeous tilework, molded copper on the bar, stained glass ceilings, carved wood molding. Beautiful. Didn’t go in either establishment this time; full of older men, and wasn’t in the mood to strike up chat or, conversely, play the intruder.

Cold. Shivering. Wound up on high street. Displeased. Sat in the world’s noisiest Starbucks to see if I could sort a hotel rather than brave the trip back into Stoke. Finally decided it wasn’t worth it. Walked a fair distance. Took photos of architecture, buses and lights.

Liverpool train station is easy to spot, though must be circumvented due to construction out front. Enormous space inside, girder arches and LED signs. Lots of little overpriced cafes filled with crap fast food. Purchased a brie and tomato baguette that then started its new life as a leaky sandwich in my laptop bag. Would discover the stain later in the evening. Caught train back to Crewe and submitted myself to a 45 minute stand on the cold platform – three rather drunk and obnoxious teens in the waiting room. Couldn’t be bothered to listen. Lots of shy smiles from men on/waiting for trains, I’ve noticed. One man put his money in a vending machine, with anticipated resultant hitting the side and cursing. Another, more lively gent walked by and told the other to “just kick it, mate” and proceeded to kick the crap out of the front.

Large train to Crewe and small train to Stoke both filled with large groups of drunk football fans singing and roaming from car to car. Something about not wearing claret. Two pretty French girls with acne making fun of them. Normally I’d find all this kind of amusing and charming in an obtuse way, but was very grumpy by the time 9:15 had rolled around.

Once back in Stoke, I dashed out to the bus stop, thinking I was so very clever: the final bus at City Centre at 9:30pm, look at me, on time and feelin’ fine….silently egging the 24 bus onward like a dray horse. Go, go, you bastard! Except when I arrived, the final bus wasn’t due for another hour. Whoops. And it was cold. Walked down to the corner chippy, considered going into the local pub….but just ordered some chips and gravy and sat quietly eating. The chip shop’s door was open, somewhat ruining my plan to be warm for a half hour. The owner struck up a conversation, asking if I worked for a newspaper. Ha.

Cold, long day, full of men with cropped hair and short jackets, girls with shaved stripes in their hair and high-heeled boots. Yelling, beer-swilling, singing, stomping, stumbling, tittering, and shrill shrieky dolphin-girl laughing.

Have had better ones.

Blue shadow in orange streetlight.

Hello! It’s been ages. And chances are, I’m writing to a blank wall….doubtful there’s anyone still reading. Needless to say, adequate reason has kept me away. Frantic, and many times poor, decision-making has been at the fore this year. In the New Year, many people damn the noughties for their luck, I can only damn myself.

Out for a walk today in Staffordshire; in England at the present, and hope to stay for another 1 month 12 days, since the daft immigration officer allowed me three months. There’s been a bit of a topsy-turvy going on, since my funds have disappeared, but I’d rather stick it out. Much borrowing of money and guilt feelings, and friends/family asking me why I don’t just come home now. Excellent question. And there are excellent answers. But I’m not at all sure they’d maintain their high quality if I actually verbalized them.

Walking along the canal from Froghall to Consall Forge, I hope I won’t fall again. Took a spill the other day that knocked my back, right where your buttocks end and the spine’s all knobbly. Ow. Also thwacked elbow, which is still sore and grumpy. It wound up being one of those excellent Charlie Chaplin style prat falls, feet flying up over head, the ice underneath the snow giggling away. Ipod is on, headphones in ears…a moment’s musing about why the earpieces don’t feel cold, then an assumption that my head must be using a few extra capillaries and calories to warm them up. There’s almost no one on the path today, which is fine. One elder gentleman, dour – I’ve run into him before, always with the same curt reception. I get the impression that he isn’t out for shits and giggles, and indeed has to make this trek. A brief question mark as to whether he’s the resident of the one canal barge with smoke wafting from the chimney.

Two walks ago (5 days?), there was a terrible smell emanating from one of the barges. Concerned me. I could only assume that 1) someone’s septic had burst, or 2) an animal had managed to get in, but not get out again. TERRIBLE odor. It lasted forever, or so it seemed, the wind drawing it along the side of the canal.

The snow was heavy, sparkling and two inches thick on every surface, not quite heavy enough to cascade off the branches in a tumble trying for the opening of your coat. Very bright and cold. I wasn’t in the mood to talk with anyone and tended to stand off to the side and let people pass with a quick “hello”, the two syllables instantly marking me as a non-local anyway. I had too much time on my hands and took photos of snow, a losing proposition. Once in a while, large flakes would hurtle down from the sky, in the partial sun and grey, and glint like sparklers. Very pretty. A little dog ran up to me, white and brown with earnest eyes. I couldn’t see his people…indeed, he had run so far ahead of them he accompanied me back to where they were standing. Everyone has a walking stick and a knit cap. Wellies and hiking boots. Greens, greys, blues and browns. Once in a while you see someone like me, a little out of place, wearing an overcoat or the wrong boots. I assume they’ve driven in from elsewhere. And sure enough, at the end, there’s the SUV parked near the gate.

The pub has a warm fire. At the bar, they offer cappuccino of a powdered packaged sort. Sprinkle cinnamon on it and it does fine. Sometimes the place is packed, nowhere to sit. Stand at the counter, drink instant coffee. Order a packet of crisps. Head back. Other days, it’s deserted. Like today. I speak with the landlord for a while, who’s been curious about my nationality, where I’m from, why I’m here. He tells me there’s a beer fest in a few weeks. The local trains will run from noon to midnight to assist merrily tipsy afficionados up and down the track, from Froghall to Cheddleton. It sounds like a blast. Will go.

The landlord shows me a book he has behind the counter, about the history of the area. Collecting photos of things that no longer exist, factories, homes, kilns, lime barges. Melancholy, but very interesting, and I think that I can place several building’s ghosts on the walk back.

Mean to try a walk through Crowgutter Wood. Mainly for the name. Saw a puddle of crow feathers today, and wondering if it was a fight, or demise at the talons of one of the local raptors. Do they hunt crows? Are those really crow feathers? Maybe a blackbird.

Back now, inside, warm but not warm enough, winter being winter. Listening to Xaphan by Secret Chiefs 3 and wishing they’d pick up on my whimsical notions and tour northern England. Would love to show them off to my friends. Times passes: now the song B-side by the Sleepers plays...no need to wonder about them touring. Though I suppose that’s a grim and not very nice thing to say. More soon.