It's about one o' clock in the afternoon on a Sunday in January, circa 1989. You're in an Holts's pub in Newton Heath, on your own. It's pissing down outside, and your clothes are still damp from the walk here. You've had no breakfast and you're on your third pint. You had a skinful last night, but you can think of fuck all else to do. The girl you were seeing cunted you off just before Christmas. You're reading the football reports in the Sunday papers. City lost yesterday. You keep looking up. It's only the hardliners at this time, and the atmosphere is subdued, if not downright defeated. You are not there yet, but you fear it might not be long off if you don't get your act together, yet you can't seem to do it. And you're only in your mid-20s ffs.
This comes on the jukebox*
It's kind of comforting, and at the same time not. You drink it in with the remainder of your beer and it brings you to yourself. You give the newspapers to the old guy along the row and head out into the rain. You have no fucking idea what you're going to do for the rest of the day. Work on Monday seems almost inviting.
*Holts's pubs and the music that generally dominated in them... Maybe only native Mancunians of a certain age can remember and understand.