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I love Ormskirk

As I was closing up the restaurant last night, a drunk old man moved past the window. Swaying, early seventies at a guess. A fairly typical sight at eleven thirty.

Except this guy was on rollerblades. Smartly dressed in a brown suit, his hair brylcreemed slickly back, and on rollerblades. Rollerblades.

I love Ormskirk.

In other news, a review of the Neon Higthway reading popped into my inbox this morning, and cheered me up to the extent that I almost forgot that I've been sick as a dog for the last five bastard days, it concluded:

Finally, featured poet Matt Falaize delighted the crowd with his unashamed celebrations of weirdness. Whilst he too totally ignored the chosen themes of the evening, his mile-a-minute articulation of insane tongue twisters about life in Ormskirk and Cornwall were nothing short of sensational, complete with frantic wordplay and imaginary gangster funerals.

That'll do for me, at least I've got one now to compete with my bad review. In your face, Steve Spence!

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