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.