Seventeen monosyllabic grunts arranged into groups of 5-7-5,
a gripe about the weather,
and a short pause in which to swear and spit.
And thus a new form of northern poetry is born:

The Mancku.

Sometimes I forget, but there’s nothing like fucking everything off and kicking back with your friends.

What a weekend!

Nigella eat your heart out!

Love is the worst fuckin drug there is, mate:

You’ll search the world to find it.
When you’ve got it you always want and need just a little more.
When it’s in you, you are on Cloud Nine.
When it’s not there, you do nothing but think about it all day long.

And when it’s finally gone, the come-down is like nothing on God’s earth.