"What is there between Manchester and Liverpool? Warrington. And let's be honest before the Swedes built a shop, we didn't even know it was there." - John Bishop
Let's get something straight off the bat: Warrington's got some stiff sh*t. You step off at central station and wonder if you've walked into the remnants of World War II that were never cleaned up. Yes half of the shops are shut down. Yes Bridge Street's a dump. Yes our "cultural quarter" consists of one small bit of grass, about two bars and the Parr Hall/Pyramid but it isn't all bad. The rest of Britain thinks that Warrington is a place where every second woman is an advertisement for Sunny D, and almost exclusively a hairdresser. The men that aren't failed rugby trialists are criminals. They think that we're your typical, binge-drinking, undesirable slob of a town where the shots double up for a quid and the sky is almost exclusively grey. OK. So there is that. But there's also something much, much more. We, us, the Warringtonians, the people, the lovers and the haters, the Wolves and the Wire. We are what they're not. We are honest with each other and honest with ourselves. This town of ours might have its rotten holes. It might have some truly awful bars and even worse weed. But what it also has are people. Good people. People who'll bat for each other and who'll take a bat to those that don't. You think you can hook up with the Wire? You'd better read on then. This is Warrington.
Betting on being a brilliant brother to Bodhi since 2008 (-1 Asian Handicap). Find me @LiamJJohnson on Twitter where you might find some wonderful pearls of wisdom in a stout cocktail of profanity, football discussion and general musings. Or you might not. Depends how red my eyes are.