I met Manchester man when the ‘Purple People Eaters’ were supporting ‘The Anti Nowhere League’ in Hackney. He came back in the van with us after the gig. I opened my bedsit door to find another man in my bed, he was a friend of Marni’s sister who I’d been seeing and I’d given him a spare key because he was an actor and would come round to mine after his shows, very late. He was nice enough, if a little straight, but Manchester Man had a green Mohican and in the moment had become more attractive.
Finding this funny, we left the man in my bed to enjoy his sleep while we slept in the kitchenette under damp towels I’d rescued from the bathroom. Manchester Man left early to get the train back to Manchester and I got into the bed next door with the man in my bed. The bed man and I never dated outside of my room or in the daylight. This relationship petered out. I remember now his name was Peter.
Marni and I were bored and decided to visit Manchester man and his university friends in Manchester – as Dick Whittington’s. We had sticks with pillow cases tied on the ends containing food, drink, spare knickers, hair clippers and condoms. We hurled the sticks over our shoulders and off we went. It was easy to bunk trains in those days, even as Dick Whittington’s. We hid in the toilet and snorted speed when the inspector passed by.
The Manchester man wasn’t as funny and entertaining in Manchester. He seemed to be having problems and the green had washed out of his Mohican. On retrospect I was having the problems and I knew from experience long relationships wouldn’t work.