THE ROBBIN' WITCHES

Stephen Davies

As one of the heavier nights draws in on this starless, mid-November evening in Whalley Range, Manchester it is difficult to imagine that somewhere on the other side of the planet the sun is shining and some people are actually enjoying themselves. Morrisey of the Smiths once confessed that most of his works to date had been inspired by Whalley Range, and that just about sums this place up.

Pimps, prostitutes and petrified police patrols provide the only discernable presence on the streets (I'm glad we have those p's out of the way), save for kerb-crawlers, empty buses and local drug barons on (very expensive) wheels. The roads and avenues of Whalley Range are, in contrast, quite superlative. They have something of the Bois de Boulogne in Paris and date back to the days of the Empire, when Alexandra Park railway station and, of course, the park itself were enough to set the area squarely on the map. Sad, when you think about it. And even sadder when you take a look at the people who now live there.

Janet has been living in Whalley Range for twenty-seven years now and is little short of braindead. Last night she lay in bed awake until four in the morning holding an empty bottle of cough medicine, tilted at her lips at an angle which made sure that she was not going to miss a single drop. Where's me Prozac, she moaned repeatedly and so loudly that her neighbours were banging on the wall. But Janet was asleep, so they were wasting their time. I'll take every last drop you bastards. Where's me friggin' Prozac you robbin' witch ? Give ! (now drawling and dribbling) I said give it here you dog !

The robbin' witch to whom Janet was referring was now sound asleep, entangled in her boyfriend in a bed on the other (slightly posher) side of Whalley Range, which borders with Chorlton-cum-Hardy. And as they say in local patois, she didn't robbed nothing.

At half past three the following afternoon, Janet woke up. She didn't care what the time was - this made piss all difference - it was the day of the week she was more interested in. This is because every time Janet has woken up for the last eleven years her first thought has always been Do I have to sign on today ? which, when you're on personal issue like Jan, is also giro day. Normally, you would have to provide evidence of an unsafe address to qualify for this privilege (plus, you get to sign on later) but in Whalley Range nobody trusts any fucker, so no questions are asked.

Oh no... ...No pleease... Janet only has a friggin' restart interview. In five minutes' time.