I’m busy following MES’ advice; “leave the capitol/ exit this Roman shell”;


looks promising;

Fred, my grandad, was another pragmatist. He had a big plumbing shop in Salford near Strangeways prison on this green hillock. Eighteen apprentices. His idea of a good time was reading a book on plumbing, on how to dispose of shit.

He’d stand outside Strangeways and recruit ex-prisoners, get them making lathes and pipes. At the time they were recruiting for the army and he’d say, “You’ve got a choice – you either go to Ireland or you come with me.”

I bump into them when I’m in Manchester sometimes – fellows who are about 55. They just come up and say, “You’re Fred’s grandson, aren’t you?” and I’ll be thinking, “Oh fucking hell. What are they going to say now?” But they’re really complimentary – they say things like, “Your grandad met me outside Strangeways one Wednesday afternoon, and he turned my life around.” Different times then, different people, unlike the ungrateful musicians I employ.

They say that there’s a generation gap: you’re not actually like your mam and dad, you’re more like your grandfather or grandmother. In this respect I had more in common with my grandad than I did with my dad – just hiring people off the street. If they go, they go, if they don’t, they don’t. I’m not really bothered where people come from. Mind you, I don’t understand why everyone makes such a big deal about where they go, either. The other members of the Fall came, they saw, they fucked off, and now I no longer see them. I find it all very boring, to be honest.

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