Rolling Stock Press

2006-09-26T15:16:00.000+01:00

so the websites had a bit of a spruce up. don't think it needs much else at the moment. website for dummies had a load of stuff about adding sound and video and such, but i'll probably keep it simple. some have said it's a bad idea putting preview pages of the books on the site, but my thinking was along the lines of some bands who put a few songs up here and there. i'm never going to make much money from Rolling Stock Press, so to hold everything back till people have parted with a fiver seems a case of nose off to spite face. looking around other press' sites, not many people do this. this doesn't make much sense, as if your going to part with a fiver on some artist who you've probably never heard of, it's a leap of faith to do it on just a front cover. i know i'd have bought more small press stuff if preview pages had been availible.

still waiting to hear about my funding application for the next two Trains Are...Mint. For anything less than five grand, which mine was, takes about six weeks for an answer, and i applied five weeks ago. Trying to figure out what i'm going to do if it doesn't come through. I was thinking of messing around with pdf's, offering cheaper downloadable versions of them. But i've probably decided against them. something doesn't sit right about them. i've not written the idea off completly, but i'd rather people had a copy of the book to hold, made from a paper stock i've choosen. if the money doesn't happen i'll probably do a much smaller run. the first TAM was done in a run of five hundred, the idea being that i wouldn't run out of them any time soon. in retrospect i needn't have worried about that anyway, no bugger buying 'em n'all. so if a could blag a cash in hand shorter run of maybe two hundred, then TAM2 may still happen.

in the mean time i've started Trains Are...Boss. some sketches and such might appear here soon.

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2005-11-13T12:52:00.000Z

Manchester Oxford Road To Blackpool North. Day one.

Due to a lack of entertainment in 60's Sharston and an innate sense of adventure, Helen East walked to Blackpool in a day with someone she can't remember, following the B roads as they went. Some forty odd years later I'm doing the same, save for a few changes. I'll be doing it on my own (I'm great company), I won't be trying to do it in one day (I'm not some Dave Gorman one-trick-pony joker) and I'll be following the train line (I like trains).

This new coat may look great but it's shit for walking. No pockets. All that time spent in the gym sculpting a dahm fine arse is rendered pointless by the anguler A to Z in my back pocket.

I've never seen much point in Deansgate Station. You can see it from Oxford Road Station. There's no need for it to exist. It's about as far away from the next stop as a bus stop, but I love it for its pointlessness. The two trains that have passed through since I've written this are one to Oxford Road ( where I left, five minutes ago, walking) and one that doesn't stop here.

Have to double back on myself as the train line takes me down some dead end that looks like the place you might want to use if you don't have a bed for the night. I walk past the man with bags shouting at men relaying the road and head on past the Roman fort.

I scan some local history about the Roman fort in Castlefield which loads of couples are walking slowly around. Rumours are that it's a fake, thought up to encourage tourism, after a solitary Roman coin was found on site.

They've actually put Coronation Street on the A to Z as it stands in Granada Studios.

Bringing a camera was a good idea. Now I don't have to look like a tit writing down local history tidbits, when I can take a picture instead. Now I just look like a tit standing under railway arches writing about it.

The train line goes under Liverpool Street, to Salford Cresent, so I get to see one of them towers where they train firemen on and some tower blocks I've always liked.

I've always related north Manchester to long brick walls for some reason.

Some car show room called Carland stands in the way of me and my line. Must be doing well though as they've seen fit to build a training academy on site , I assume for over eager salesmen with the latest angular hair cut.

I pop into The Ship for a half and a quick toilet break as some traffic wardens look longingly at a police car, wishing they were a tad taller or slimmer.

Apparantly Luke's well doing his mum's head in as I swallow my pride and queue up for stodge in McDonalds.

I skip Salford Cresent. I've seen it before and it's a pretty uninspiring station. Anyway, I'm more interested in what looks like the Dean of the neighbouring Salford University, smoking a pipe in a suit. While operating a digger.

The first half of Langley Road South and the eastate that runs its length, doesn't really lend itself to brandishing a digital camera and taking notes, so I have to wait till I get to the industrial bit before I can note down the two floral tributes and graffiti claiming that the Davisis are grasses.

Turns out the recipients of the tributes wouldn't have had far to go as Agecroft Cemetery comes up on the right and a Jewish one on the left.

My original plan to always keep the train line on my left is shot to shit early on. The junction at Agecroft Road presents me with either a massive detour or a short trip down the other side to Clifton Station, passing possibly aestheticaly pleasing rubbish dumps on the way. It's the quicker way I chose as the second of two pens runs out.

I spot a path which, on the map, seems to come to a dead end, but I give it a go. It pays off as I scamper up some moss covered steps to stand right on the train line as one goes by, knocking me back with the wind. The thrill wears off though as the path drags on a bit and seems perfect ground for violent sexual encounters. After some scrambling up some verges, to the sound of the dog pound on the other side, I find a gap in the fence and head on up Lumn's Lane.

My plans to get home in time for the football are dealt a blow as I find out there's only one train to Manchester from Clifton and that's at seven in the morning, so I press on to Kearsley to catch the 16.55. I've got an hour.

Manchester Road is a chore. The sun's up as it begins and dark as you like at it's end. Both pens having run out, this stretch isn't enjoyed as I'm forced to try and remember all my witty one liners till I can get to a pen that works. Plus not much is taken in because I'm trying to get to the station on time. This wouldn't have been a problem if I'd set off in time, but Soccer AM was a factor in my departure. When I finally get to Kearsley, having not thought to check the trains back home, I'm suprised to find the next and last train only goes as far as Rochdale. My only choice is to get the number 8 from outside The White Horse. This isn't before I watch the first half, see Rooney's goal, and forget how potent Stella can be. I find out I can take notes on my phone and email them to myself. In the morning they read: Booze.Fags.Stuff you want.Manc rd light start dark end.Caught pissing.No train MCR.Pub stella.Bus £3.Sign O the times can text on bus but write people stare.

2005-11-13T12:37:00.000Z

House Of Fire To Black Hill. Day Six

The light's doing that thing where it shines through a break in the cloud, as if some God is photocopying examples of His work to put in a portfolio to gain funding for his next project.

I curse a mate's talent for a chorus as I try to digest some local history about some bridge, but I can't get this tune out of my head.

The steep path leads me up to Chew Resoivour where there's a real sense of height as you can feel the size of the planes passing just the other side of the clouds. I don't trust my map reading skills to take my line across the hill top so I skim the resoivour towards the edge at Laddow Rocks.

The Path from Laddow Rocks to the summit of Black Hill is part of the Pennine Way, and apart from a few soggy bits, is easy enough to follow. The stretch, the last bit of my trek, is done under a surprising cloud of meloncoly, which I didn't see coming at all. I won't bore you with the details, but the pointlessness of the whole excercise weighs heavily as I approach the summit. I look back and I can't see anything of Manchester. Not even sure I've got the right hill. I get over myself and have a flapjack and a sit down and figure out how to get home.

2005-10-09T21:13:00.000+01:00

House of Fire to Black Hill. Day 5

There's this guy called Ian Sinclair. He's got the right idea. His walks have a pattern, usually ending where they started. This could be my last straight line. Country buses are crap.

Harry Dean Stanton got it right in Paris, Texas. He was more committed than I am. Great walker; suit. beard, cap. Good look. His brother picks him up a couple of times, but he just fucks off on him and gets on with it. He got more train tracks than I've had so far. Better hills too. Forest Gump doesn't count. He ran.

I've given up trying to do this walk in a day. It's too far and the days are getting shorter. So I get the train to where I finished last time in Ashton. It's been a while since I've walked this walk and, fully refreshed after a Mexican honeymoon, I'm raring to go.

Not started today as planned. Elbow played last night so I'm a bit fuzzy round the edges. Planned to be up and out by five thirty, but I suppose seven isn't too bad. Quick toilet break first.

GAYMALE 41 LOVES COCK INSIDE ME OWN PLACE CLEAN I LOVE IT V.GEN SEEKS 18-41 NO TIMEWASTERS TEXT OR PHONE XXXXXXXXXXXX (sic). And apparantly Alan Ellor is a rapist.

Breakfast is acquired from a stand alone, circular counter which takes it's design cues from Blackpool promenade. The lady serves me while both chanting "can't be arsed, can't be arsed, can't be arsed" and ignoring her mates cries of "who put gravy in the beans"? I forgo the half pound mega greedy steakburger and opt for a bacon and egg barm with coffee. Edge of hangover duly taken off and I carry on.

Two great Austins on one drive make me wish I'd brought my camera, as I try and guess the time through their living room window. I've left my watch at home and I've brought my radio to listen to the cricket.

I'm caught in the middle of the school run by Hurst Knoll C of E. Loads of bottle blonde mums, standing on the corner, just out of sight so the kids think they've made it to school all by themselves.

Having eaten all my energy bars and broccolli quiche yesterday in a fit of quit fags boredom. The best I can stock up on in some corner shop is two bannanas, an apple, a pint of milk and a box of jaffa cakes. Should do for now. Ask me again when I'm up some hill though.

My map and compass decide to argue for a bit while I stand around looking like a dick in front of some mums. They sort themselves out though and we're off down some side street in the direction of Queens Road.

Aston (Hurst) cemetary's nice enough, with some hills (not mine) in the background and the sound of some groundsman behind a tree. But the building looks under siege; pretty battered and boarded up. Apart from to pause to write this, it's not worth further investigation.

Reaching the end of Kings Road I see the first sign that I'm getting to the end of suburbia as the road just ends in some hills. To confirm this, someone's put up a pub, called The Peaks with the name under and undulating line. It's closed which means the cricket hasn't started yet and a dead squirrel moves me along.

There're no peaks, just a golf course. A quick map check shows I've still yet to pass through Luzley, Hartshead Green and Heyheads before I hit hills. But, walking down Gorsey Lane, to my left, down a footpath, I spot some tower with a spire on a small hill. The sign says Knott Hill Reservoir so I'm guessing it's Knott Hill. It's way to far off my line though. Some other day.

Bowstead. Overdale. Little Marco. Foxfield. The Old School House I'll forgive, but why name your house. Point Grey. Friars Cragg. Four Winds. Hazeldone. Then some modern houses stand as an embarrasment to the rest of the road, having the gaul to make do with numbers.

Luzley Road brings cows and caravans; more signs of countryside. And some curiosity called:
FRISKY MEADOWS CATS HOTEL.
0161339XXXX
OPEN ALL YEAR ROUND. CATS ONLY.

There's a steady climb with that dry sticky sensation only drinking a pint of milk on a hangover will give. Some gentle spoken Irish man is introducing hymns so it can't be past ten yet. My compass points me across some field. There's now actual path, but a sign points that way and there's the subtlist of styals. There's not a soul in sight so I give the styal some purpose and head towards some dogs.

The path was on my map and I didn't imagine the styal, but I'm not agile enough for barb wire, so i'm forced to turn back and go the long way round, doubling this styals yearly usage in a single day.

There's a highlights package on, so it must be on soon. I get a great view of that tower I saw before. This means I've gone the wrong way so I get the map out and focus. I endure a bit of tooing and froing and loking at horses before I find the footpath. They don't make it easy on you by hiding the signs.

I try to ignore the bastard of a dog at my ankles as the view to Heylands makes me pause. Hills on all sides and a grey ceiling boxing it all in, before another dead animal moves me on. A bird of some kind. Only a few feathers left.

Curse myself for concentrating on a dead sparrow instead of an interview with Shane Warne. 325 for 8 as I fill myself on wild raspberries for a bit.

The paths around Hartshead Green are pretty much non existent, rendering the sign posts redundant. So I bite the bullet and head as the crow goes to Manchester Road.

There's some smug fat cat at Tameside Council sitting in his hot tub, right now, snorting cheap horse off his Thai brides breasts, using the banknotes earmarked for the styals and sign posts in his borough. Passing some Cantonese restaurant, I cross Manchester Road into the Tame Valley and onto Bottom Mossley.

According to the sign post, Miller Hey, where I'm heading, is gay and the other way no longer takes you to Stalybridge but Vegas. Apparantly Hoggard is a good judgement of length.

I have to skirt a golf course to find the gap in the fence to carry on. Sweating it out now so plastic mac comes off.

Path leads to Heyheads in Stalybridge which is twinned with Armentieres. I'm a day too early for the Mossley time line music festival, "to celebrate our industrial past and musical present" and the Stamford Arms is shut. Balls. Turning around I learn that Mossley is twinned with Hem.

The overgrown and pushy path footpath leading to Castle Lane brings m to the eastern edge of my AA Street By Street Manchester Book. This is where OS 1 starts. I've forgiven Tameside Councile for their non existent styals because i've found a bus that will take me from my edge back to Ancoats, so I don't have to walk back to Mossley train station. 373 for 9. Three fours in a row for Harmison.

England all out for 373 and Castle Lane is where walking more as a hobby starts, and true to form, there's a couple of Cotswalds heading up Buckton Moor. My line heads through Buckton Vale Quarry and I don't fancy my chances, so it's either the left or right side of it.

Having to take a huge detour round the quarry, via greenfield. It's way off my line but there's no other way. Tameside Trail turns into Oldham Way as my body tells me a toilet break should be my main priority, not some line. Next pub pint stop.

With food on mind instead of line and with the test at lunch, The Jesus Lizard accompany me to some pub with Monkey Trick.

The closest thing to a ploughmans lunch I can get at The Clarence is a cheese and tomato baquette, but I can get all the tapas I could want. A short exchange with the elderly landlady ends in me regretting responding with "they say it's the first sign of madness", when she comments on her talking to herself. The guilt stems from that she looks about alzheimers age.

The bid and I discuss Mike Gattings weight as my contact lense falls out and the following attempt to put it back in with raspberry and chip covered fingers, sends me home early.

2005-10-09T18:45:00.000+01:00

House of Fire to Black Hill. Day 4.

The uneven pavement makes you feel more hungover than you actually are, with the surface making you trip here and there. Trying to write in shorthand because there's a bus full of scroats pointing at you, only adds to the effect.

"Do yer smoke love?"
"No, sorry hun".
Leave me alone, get bored and go away.
(shouting now, noticebly nasal.)
"DON'T BE SHY, GIVE US A TRY".
All this at 10am. I was going to say something about how railway arches get me off, but I stumbled upon this lady getting changed.

Can't see much of the hill at the moment. It's a great day. Blue sky and everything, but the horizon's dead hazy. I think if I actually stopped to write what I wanted, longhand, noone would bother me. Who gives a shit if some bloke's writing. I'm sure people have more pressing matters at hand. Admittidly, I've just written that when there's noone around.....no, scratch that. There's builders building and some dog.

I noticebly grin as I pass the police station and see there's some market going on. And my compass is pointing me straight through it. It's mostly crap of course, but I grab a brew and have a luck at the mens shoes. But it gets better. As I pass the bleached blonde crowd around a man with boxes of Lambert and Butler in his bag, I find there's loads more stalls through a small door. I take my time, trying hard to find some pirate DVD I'd want but no luck. I discretly check the compass and move on.

The side of Wal Marts Asda that I'm walking along looks like the side of a prison. I don't meen that in some A-level, anti-corporate rant, way. Just that it's quite high and made of steel, so it looks like a prison.

Haven't seen my hill for ages, but there's a nice little church and a bit of a park. North Road's starting to climb so I don't think I'll be seeing it for a while. Nice church though. I stop at a bus stop on the Tameside border and the map looks like I'll be hitting some park or countryside soon. I'm at the top of a hill and if it wasn't so hazy, I could see loads of the hill. There's a few meen faces here and there but it's quite nice round here. I think I've passed through Clayton and I press on through Droylsden.

The ambulance that passed me a minute ago is now parked outside some retirement flats.

Haven't seen any good graffiti for ages.

As much as I'm surprised at how relaxed Droylsden is, it's pretty uninspiring stuff. It's to quiet. I think I need the fear of being bum raped by rabid proles on cracksmack.

Just passed a shop that was boarded up. But I think they're just having a refurb, as there were no scorch marks on the brick work.

I'm stuck. I'm lost in a load of cul-de-sacs. There may well be countryside, but it's on the other side of someones house. After some stares as I walk past the same people, still washing their cars, I find a way out and stop to watch Droylsden Juniors train at Lewis Road Football Ground.

Kind of want some houses to pop up soon, as my path takes me down the back of some warehouse.

No houses come but it's taking me through the Medlock Valley. Although I've just looked at the compass, and I've strayed off course. So I double back on myself and head back onto the main road. Kind of glad really, because it'll be easier to get back to Manchester when these cheap socks have had their way with my feet.

The first scoat I've seen for miles decides to wait untill he's a foot behind me, to start singing at the top of his voice. My compass points us both across this big bit of land, towards Littlemoss. He doesn't seem too bothered about the Alsation, whereas I choose to take the long way round.

My first horse stares me out as I turn a corner in some kind of farm thing. Three hours from the House of Fire. Not bad going. My path at the moment is a footpath to Ashton.

Thoughts about how I'm going to get back to Manchester start to creep in. I've come too far to just walk home.

Some fat old dog decides to join me for ten minutes. He looks like he'd have a stroke if he went for me, so i'm not too fussed.

I take a quick detour, as my socks take on the feel of sandpaper. I didn't bring a map so I wasn't sure where I was, but I find a bus shelter with a map, which shows me I'm five minutes from Ashton bus station. So I'm going to call it a day for today. I've got loads further than before; and with lighter evenings and better socks, I'll see if I can get further still, next time.

2005-10-09T04:52:00.000+01:00

House of Fire to Black Hill. Day 3

Turn Mudhoney off as Tommy's Head comes into viewand my pace drops to write this bit. There's a great outline of the hill today. No definition on the hill but it's a very dark grey against a lighter sky. No bum as yet.

Rapist X3 and something about Tezza and someone waitin 4 da bus I.D.S.T, but I couldn't get it all down cos there were too many people waitin for da bus.

Wanted to write down what was on that blue plaque thing, but I bottled it. It's these dahm people at bus stps again. Thankfully the stop on my side has a metal shelter, so they can't see me stop and write this.

It's best not to stare out Alsations for too long. It didn't see me, but the low fence thing and the thin string would have been major factors in how the next bit of the walk went.

Just noticed the hill's dissapeared as I've reached Essex Way and it's started raining a bit.

I retrace a few steps to note:
NO MUGGERS OR BURGLARS. THIS IS A WORKING CLASS AREA. DON'T RIP OFF YOUR OWN.
Some class war thing. Always good for a laugh as they always seem to miss the point by some way.

It's pissing it down now and it's becoming harder to write stuff down, because the pen doesn'y work on wet paper. Door ways offer temporary shelter, but these are worse for my nerves than the bus stops. It's all flats round here, so there's more people to come through each door. Saying that, in the time it's taken to write that, it's stopped raining. Plus a bus has pulled up right next to me, so i'm off.

I look for signs of life as I pass this green and white building, just before Cavendish. It's a great building but there's no signs as to what it's used for. It's blatantly a squat. But it's been a squat for so long, and it's such a good looking building, I don't know why noone's claimed it for something else. The windows are open at various degrees and I've seen a pair of feet on the bottom floor. The owner of the feet had placed the rest of their body under the window, out of sight. If you stand at an angle and look up at the first floor, you can see Bob Marley posters on the wall.

I'm now acutely aware of Clare's laptop which is swinging on my back, in it's case. I've reached the warehouse from which I've to take a right and onto Beswick. I'm not sure the laptop was such a good idea. Standing here writing about it can't be doing me any favours either.

I've mapped this next bit out but there's no chance I'm standing about with a map, as well as everything else. I know I've got to get to Ashton Old Road. From there it's a blur. I'll have to go back to my studio and write the route down.

I don't suppose you get many tourists in this bit, but i could pass for one, which could work against me. I've never been this way before, so my pace has slowed and because I can't see my hill at the moment, I'm looking up more than most. Not being in university grounds anymore, this makes me stand out.

My bearings are shot to shit as I approach the Apollo, which I didn't know was coming. There is the roundabout I was expecting though and it's here I take a right.

The light's doing that thing where it shines really bright on something even though the sky behind it's a really dark grey. This is made even better because the thing it's shining on is Ardwick train station. A great station which is rarley used, kind of over grown and has great views of Kinder Scout and Black Hill. My plan to take a quick detour is put on hold as Tony phones, saying he needs some keys for work. I'll come back in a bit.

Fall into my bed.
Isn't on this walk, so it's probably cheating and shouldn't be included. But I thought it was too good not to note down. Blame Tony.

The detour was good in the end because it gave me a chance to look at the maps. I'd strayed off course a tad. Not far though. Just planning my route through Beswick and I'll be off again.

The peks have arrived under an Ian Skelly ad. It's good to see some hills again. It's been a while. However, none of them are my hill and the rum estate I have to pass through is approaching. This'll be the first of many so I'll have to get used to it fast, as Openshaw and Ashton lie ahead.

I'm surprised as Holy Street doesn't pitch me head long into the estate I was expecting. This surprise is replaced with trepidation and then just fear, as I see my chosen route takes me down the side of some viaduct. Viaducts usually get me going, but personal safety is an issue here and I swear this laptop's just aquired it's own pulse.

I start to doubt if Ferry Street exists any more, as there's big mounds of earth where my road was. Some new estate on it's way.

I don't know the guy in the hood, about a hundred yards behind me. For all I know he does stirling work with disabled children. Work that has been recognised by some royal award. Not knowing who he is, I wouldn't know what his intentions are. This lack of knowledge prompts me to put my notebook away and head on past Mytle Street.

2005-10-02T21:29:00.000+01:00

HOUSE OF FIRE TO BLACK HILL. DAY 2

It's hard studying a walk you do every day. I'm too late for the borderline-bum-with-a-bag, but as usual, Yule is there to see me off with his stupid pout and weird shirt. Can't see the hill today as it's as overcast as you like. Have to turn my walkman off. Having no attention span, I can't keep my mind on more than one thing at once. This was alright when I had a radio, as 80% of that is crap and not worth a listen. I'll still keep the headphones in though, in case some bad crazies waddle up and ask why i'm stood in the middle of the pavement writing; then i can ignore them. It's only the loons that bother you. Everyday man just sees some black coat writing in his book and lets be, chalking him up as another loon. Maybe the loons see me as their kin.

Indecipherable tags in inaccessible places dot the route. Too obscure to note down. Too note worthy not to.

In the short steps to West Point, the clouds seem to be breaking. Can't see the hill yet, but you can see them lines left by planes.

Every time a car pulls up and catches me writing, I always look down and walk on, which only serves to bring more attention my way, as I try and walk and write at the same time.

RAPIST X3 hasn't come yet, but I know it's on it's way and it jumps out every time.

I try and stop myself thinking about lunch, while walking past non-descript council housing, as I've done thousands of times. After lunch, when i reach east Manchester, is where the unfamiliar begins. Until then it's a stretch to scratch out the interesting in the mundane. I guess therein lies the challenge. Just got a few lines out of nothing so it can't be all bad. Getting into Hulme now, where bad crazies live in the red bricks.

You can't really double check if you've posted a letter right, can you? I can return to the front door three or four times, to check it's locked. But if a letter's not in my pocket and i was stood in front of a post box a minute ago, then it should be posted. It's Clare's fault for giving me twenty-four letters to post. Still, I retrace my steps to Northumburland Road to check they're not on the floor or something. Now there's some guy standing in the area of the post box, so i can't exactly go back and check the floor around him, so i turn back. I try and get my mind back on the hill, but the thought of them lying thereis eating me up inside. So I turn back again, but the guy's still there and now there's people at the bus stop who've seen me just walk up the road, walk back and then turn again, stop and write. FUCK!

Of course I'd posted them. And there were none on the floor. But I had to pretend to the van over the road that I was checking the collection times. Who does that? Plus i've not had a fag for two days.

I cross the road, something I wouldn't do if I was just going to work. I notice some blue plaque and make out it's for some woman who sang for someone, before some guy opens the door and I get all embarrassed and move on.

I've spent far too much time between Northumbaland Road and Henriatta Street, writing and turning around. It's time to focus back on the hill. I cross back and write about the familiar.

JE SUS LO RD
FA TH E R
WE TH ANK YOU

The gaps are gaps in the lamppost.

The hill dissappeared a few hundred yards ago, behind Cavendish, but there were men in vests and I couldn't write.

There's these great little patches outside a load of the flats, where people have dragged their christmas trees out the front door and left wet patches of pine needles every few steps. This goes really well with the odd spray of shattered glass, from car windows, you get alonf this stretch of Strerford Road. They're both different shades of green and look well mint. Maybe some were thrown from top windows, like I used to do with my mums. Of course as soon as I stop to write about it, the show stops.

There's a great bit of land on the corner of Stretford Road and (?) that I hope they never build anything on. It's wasteground with no fence, but it's got a six foot locked gate that stands alone. There's a few trees in it (a rarity in Hulme, where there's more tree huggers than trees), but the best bit are these paths that people have cut out for themselves. From bus stop to bus stop, or bus stop to offie. Each one the quickest way from A to B. The council have acknowledged this and paved a couple, but it can't be long before they put some flats on it, and i'll miss it when they do.

Rufus catches me by Hulme arch and I have to explain why I'm walking through Hulme, at a snails pace, writing in a little book. I do this as we watch one dog try and bum another. The bumee is owned by this girl I used to work with, at the Drop Inn, eight years ago. We laugh. She laughs I catch her eye. She doesn't recognise me. Probably the beard. I move on.

Can just make out Black Hill as I walk through Cavendish and make small talk with Mike. Still no teaching hours.

The stretch from the bank down to the bottom is always a bit ropey and you always see the same red faces. Proper rum alckies with various 50% free lagers and grumpy women in tow. One's always pushing a bike but i'm not sure it's always the same one.

I love the aesthetics of blocks of flats, which is easy to say when you don't live in one; but these are amazing. The lines are great. I don't want to dordle too long (man with bike is looking), but if I stand in the right spot I can see Mancunian Way, another favourite, flowing behing two great blocks.

The promise of good weather fades as it's suddenly grey all over, as I come to the hard part. This warehouse in front of me marks the end of my straight line. I've got to keep my line as best i can, but it's going to be complicated from know on.

2005-10-02T20:21:00.000+01:00

House of Fire To Black Hill. Day One

There's this fireplace at the start of the walk. The owner's put up a massive picture of himself above the door, with his chest all puffed out. Someone must have told him he looks like Yule Brenner, (probably over a Stella in The Tollgate, over the road) because of his bald head, as he's seen fit to incorparate a pun into his pitch, which reads: YULE SAVE PLENTY. Wanker.

Every time I do this walk, I pass the same grey haired guy in a coat. The point at which we pass depends on how much of a crap american sitcom, King Of Queens, i've let myself watch. It's average sitcom fayre, but there's this woman in it. She was in Friends once and I always thought she's go on from there. unfortunatly her acting hasn't improved, but it's her weird eye-mouth thing that dictates where I pass this guy.

He looks smart enough but he's not far from looking like some drifter. His case could be empty for all I know. We've passed each other so many times, there's evolved this awkward recognition thing. Our only common ground is this stretch of pavement. Maybe it's just me, but it's an effort not to look at him. If we were ever to meet eyes, I'd feel obliged to nod some nod for ever more. Can't be arsed with that so it's head down and past West Point. It's a tad overcast so I can't tell where my hill ends and the clouds start.

RAPIST X3. I see this, not just on this walk, but every day. I swear it's fading. One day, on some other walk, I'll see if there's a 1 or a 2. i've just noticed how high up the wall it is.

Haven't written anything for two songs, so I turn the walkman off to concentrate.

On a clear day, you can see loads of the hill at the start of the walk; by Yule. You can make out the different colours and fields. It dissapears quickly though, the further up Stretford Road I go. On an overcast day i can't see anything. I was going to say that on an overcast day, I wonder why i'm doing this, but I don't at all. That'd be lying. I've got my map and the line is noted. It could be any weather and I'd love this walk. I just need to get further than before and i'll be happy. The first dry run got me as far as Beswick, before a sore leg (which spred to a sore arse) sent me back to my studio and a coffee.