not all that gangster after all

i spent yesterday tramping through the slums of Manchester looking for a shop. On my map it looked like, at most, 3 miles, but seemed about twice as long in reality. i found myself wandering through Longsight and Levenshulme with a grimace of Roger Scruton-like disgust, even staring at likely brigands with appalled dismay, murmuring, “fucking savages”. i’m quite surprised no one took offense, but i suppose you get used to that sort of thing, in the ghetto.

There was one redeeming incident in all this, however: on the bus into town a huge black guy in full gangster regalia got on and sat next to me as i read The English Patient.

“Great,” i thought. “He’ll probably rip my book to pieces and sit there laughing at me. And i’ll have to take it because he’s bigger than me and has gold teeth.”

An old (white) women got on the bus, carrying a heavy shopping bag. Mr Gangster promptly stood and offered her his seat, which she gratefully accepted.

i’m not sure 50 Cent would have approved.