Wigan 8th February 2007

Due to backpacking buffoons in Manchester I'd slept badly the night before. I wasn’t in the mood for Wigan, if there is such a thing as being in the mood for Wigan. I took the slow bus from Manchester to get there, which took 90 minutes to travel 18 miles. It would have been quicker in a sedan chair, carried by cats. There were leaflets on the bus warning that the route was threatened with closure due to low usage. Some consultants were probably looking into why this is. I could save them the trouble.
The bus crept its way through grey and ugly villages. There was little of interest to see although I did pass a pub advertising an upcoming psychic night. Makes a change from karaoke I suppose.
It was a slow news week in Wigan if the poster from the local newspaper was anything to go buy. The headline read, 'Wiganers warned to lock their sheds'.
Irritation piled upon irritation. Wigan isn’t big, but I still managed to get lost. I was looking for Wigan Pier, or as it’s now branded, the Wigan Pier Experience. Why is everything called an experience nowadays, but rarely feels like one? As it turned out the road to Wigan pier was closed to pedestrians due to maintenance work. My notes from the day at this point read, yet another shithole that’s declared war on pedestrians.
One of the reasons I visited was that I wanted to see Uncle Joe’s Emporium, the home of Uncle Joe’s Mintballs. Due to poor research I’d run away with the idea that this would involve having a nosey around the factory that makes the sweets but this was separate to the shop. So I was making a three hour round trip to mooch round in a sweetshop. Uncle Joe’s Mintballs have been around for years and are world famous. They’re round, minty and apprently vegan in case you’re wondering.

I searched my map for the local museum, couldn’t find one labelled as such so took a punt on the History Shop. It turned out to be a museum in all but name. I was so irritated I couldn’t concentrate on the exhibits. I wanted to ask the woman behind the reception desk if I could buy some history but she was becardiganned and a bit soppy looking; I wasn’t sure she’d cope with my industrial strength sarcasm. As it was I settled for asking her if this was the only museum in the town. She said it was. Inwardly I punched the air in triumph. Ha! There! See! It’s a bloody museum.

By the time the coach home left from Manchester, snow had started to fall further south. I knew because the driver told us. She apologised for our late departure which was due to snow related delays around Birmingham on the inward journey. She ended her weather update by saying, ‘It’s slippy out there, so, please, make sure you put on your seatbelt.’ I felt nervous immediately and began wondering what she wasn’t telling us. I imagined something along the lines, ‘And to top it all, I made a bit of a night of it last night and frankly I think I’m still pissed. Anyway, fingers crossed.’