Menk, by Joh Doran

[Guest MortstoX]

http://www.vice.com/...thor/john-doran

 

One night in 1992 I went out in Manchester to watch Ministry. I went to a party afterwards, got the train home to Hull the next day and got to the pub at opening time to meet Albert and a few others. About 12 hours later we decamped back to Albert’s and I offered to go out and get everyone pizzas. Only somehow I got lost on the way back and ended up "trapped" in the grounds of old people’s secure accommodation. (I’d somehow wandered in there but couldn’t find my way back out, like it was the large scale version of a humane mousetrap or lobster pot.)

Or at least, this is what I was reliably informed happened afterwards – I have literally no recollection of anything after Ministry coming on stage really, really late. So when I woke up, frozen to the marrow, a row of 15-inch pizzas along my body like a particularly useless dough and cheese blanket in a weird, high walled garden, it didn’t even occur to me that I was anywhere other than Manchester.

According to my watch it was 6.15AM. I climbed over a wall with one of the pizzas under my arm like a big, tasty bread discus. The road was almost entirely empty but the door of a 7-11 style newsagents was open. I walked inside to see a man sweeping the floor.

“How do I get to Piccadilly?”

He looked up: “What are you talking about?”

“Piccadilly train station. How do I get there?”

He snapped at me: “Don’t you mean Paragon Square?”

“Errr. No, Manchester Piccadilly train station!”

He lifted the broom and swung it at me. It connected with my temple. He shouted at me as I stumbled away from him back on to the street – it was obviously Beverley Road! Why hadn’t I noticed?

He followed me out on to the street shouting: “Are you on drugs lad? This isn’t Manchester – this is Hull! YOU’RE IN HULL, LAD! YOU’RE IN HULL!”

 

 

Edit: Typo in the title, dammit!