I will not mention the name of the city in the north of England where I chose to go in search of the first rung on my ladder of property 30 years ago, but people who know that part of the world may very well be able to guess from what follows. Imagine a gray sky, long undulating lines of red brick terraced houses along the cobbled streets and large holes in the countryside where the coal mine used to be; perfect conditions for a ruthless young speculator ownership of the English town in South Oxford.
My father was a builder all his life and there is nothing he does not know on the houses, so I took it with me on my expeditions into the wild north for that he can give me his expert opinion, and pay for gas (both that he was happy to do so). After a few visits, we found a house that was within my budget, and after much kicking and tapping, and many crawl in very dirty, my father patted the dust on his suit as he stood, grinned at me and gave the thumbs up. He was obviously very pleased that the youngest and most rebellious of her offspring seemed to finally grow up. In fact, it looked so thrilled about it that I felt it was right to put my newspaper down, out of the car and offer her a sip of my latte.
Before committing, I wanted to spend a few nights in the city where I planned to invest most of my earnings for the next 25 years, so I went back the next weekend with a couple of friends and checked into a small guest house nearby. That night, we walked into the mysterious city full of expectation - curious to see what was happening and get a measure of the place and its potential. My friends said they might buy something there, too, if everything looked good. We were wide-eyed and excited to cross a new frontier and discover a whole new world of possibilities.
I do not buy the house. In fact, we only stayed one night before returning to our beloved Oxford at breakneck speed. To say that this city was rude does not do justice. It was a Friday night and when we arrived in the town center every pub was packed to the rafters with very strong throw alcohol in their necks people as if their lives depended on it. In the first pub I Inching my way through the crowd toward the bar when I accidentally came across a guy who was about two feet shorter than me (I have not seen). I looked at him, smiled and said, "Sorry mate" as proscribed by the unwritten rules of etiquette pub where I come from. Different rules in the north, apparently.
"Dernt fook'n Smaile to me, a lanky coont I'm not your fook'n mayet areet?" I do not know where he was, but for those of you who need a translation, I think it means: "I say old, you're big enough and that you are being a little too familiar, given the fact that we have not been properly introduced. " Straight through the crowd and back door pronto.
As young single men on the prowl, we were also keen to check local females and their overall levels of usability. What we found were women who despised anyone more than five miles away and who liked to wear minimum clothing possible, regardless of the weather (it was January and there were thousands of square meters of white flesh dimply clearly visible in all directions, not that you dared to look).
A friend of mine pointed out that it was a good thing they were wearing these short skirts because it was the only way you could be sure they were women (if they were men that you would be able to see their gear even at these temperatures).
I think it's fair to say that this city and Las Vegas are two of the very few places in the world where it is possible for men to obtain sexual favors exchange fees. We were at 22h30 to bed and back to Oxford before 10am the next day. We went to our local pub that night and I think we kissed all there. South poofters indeed we were.
NB. If you are offended because you think that this story is about your hometown, it's not. It is on another.