There are times I think I should move somewhere proper, where I can actually be involved in the real world, go to gigs, have events I will invariably ignore every single day of my life and generally feel like I don’t live in ass-backwardsville, nowhere.

I felt this before when I was young, growing up in jolly old Swinton. While my dislike of the place has softened somewhat in the years since I left, I do not regret the decision to up sticks and (eventually) end up in Leeds, which I still adore, and Manchester, which I never hit it off with but which is better than here.

Because I live in Bournemouth, and I bore of there being no gigs to go to. That I know of, at least. Maybe there is. Maybe I just don’t check. Maybe I’m just making excuses in my head to try and force myself to drop everything and fuck off to London until I’m knife crimed to death or get bored of that too.

But these times pass, and I calm down, and I remember that where I live is an area of outstanding natural beauty (outside Bournemouth, bar the beach) and that… well, it’s the kind of place where this is the local news.

And that just makes me laugh, because I live in a fucking Enid Blyton book or something. Stupid place, is this. And so Tory it hurts my soul. That’s probably the main reason I’m uncomfortable all the time.



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