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The Modern Northern Gentleman

April 2, 2010

I live in Bolton, Lancashire.

Like everybody else from the North of England, I work twenty-three hours a day in a cotton mill, can’t pronounce the letter H, and I’m sexually attracted to chips.

I ride my bicycle seven hundred miles every morning through torrential hail over soot-smeared gravel to collect a single piece of mouldy bread from t’off license. I often say the letter T instead of the word “the”, as I find it helps when I am in a hurry.

I wear a flat cap on my pockmarked head and clogs on my four-toed trench feet. Other than that I am completely naked but for thick layers of dirt.

I live in a one-bedroom cardboard bungalow with my fifteen children and my two wives, who I beat relentlessly. None of my family can read or write and never wash because, for some reason, the bath is full of coal.

I treat binge drinking like a sport and at any given time I am smoking two roll up cigarettes and a pipe. I drink and smoke with fellow male Northerners. We watch the football and say things like “Come on and bloody win and that” and “The team we don’t support are flipping gay and that”.

I’ve been working for two bob a year since I was three months old. I will almost certainly die of clunge-lung before I reach the age of 12.


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