They raced up the A1 to Didsbury, Manchester. Nowhere was the stagnation of Britain more evident. The Japanese Pavilion stood defiantly, it’s ornate red brick spires looking down, mocking the new. 70s edifices falling foul, un-pretty graffiti stained boxes, poking tongues, spoiling the beauty. The Arndale centre cold and destitute sat opposite crumbling train arches, paint peeled, stain glass stolen to turn a quick buck. They watched as the Punks picnicked in Hulme park, the great unwashed squatting on the lawn, harbouring malice at the abandonment of a once prosperous town.
“Be on your best behaviour when we meet Pra’s guy. Show respect remember this is an introduction after this you are on your own,”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“No not yet. From what I hear he’s a dick but he sleeps with a Glock under his pillow so I wouldn’t fuck with him.