Imagine youre visiting from Berlin, Paris, Geneva or Barcelona. Youve just hopped off the airport train at Piccadilly and youre heading into town. Youve heard good things and youre feeling pretty optimistic. Then Market Street happens and youre confronted with at least ten guys in parka jackets using weird whistles to make bird sounds, a guy with backwards legs playing the tin whistle, a lad in a vest who thinks hes Ed Sheeran, a beatboxer and some absolute apron with an over-confident haircut trying to get you to sign up for British Military Fitness. The layout of Market Street means innocent visitors are kettled and before theyve even realised it, theyre weeping in H&M. Market Street on a Saturday, God help you.