I was standing in the queue at the Post Office in Warrington, awaiting my turn. It was a weekday, mid-afternoon, not particularly busy, so only two counters were open but both were occupied. At one, a little querulous old dear argued about the price of Euros, whilst at the other, a thin drooping example of Gen Z waved his iPhone at the clerk.
“Try this one, our kid,” he said in that very distinctive way that some Mancunians speak. It’s a strange nasal patois, half traditional dialect and half something else, possibly created by Oasis binging on mushrooms. He looked like a Liam or a Noel, wore a dirty tracksuit, trainers, and no socks, and his ankles were white and dirty.
