INTERESTS   

green_places, fresh_air, tattooing, music_innit, BBQs, cinemas, bikes, talkin_allnight, Guitars, and_all_that,

MY HOBBIES INCLUDE   

DRAWING RANDOM PICTURES,SPENDING QUALITY TIME,COOKIN A MEAL AN ENJOYING IT, D-I-Y ,THE NIGHT SKY ,SWIMMIN ,PLAYIN MUSIC AN RELAXING

WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU HAD 1 MILLION DOLLARS?

NEVER WORK AGAIN

NAME SOME QUALITIES YOU LOOK FOR IN THE OPPOSITE SEX

COMMON INTERESTS

WHAT ARE YOUR FUTURE GOALS?

the Foundry is such a loss. Ride past it any evening of the week, from about 6, and you’d see dozens of battered, stickered bikes (hundreds on a Friday) locked all along the railings outside, and half the city’s couriers packed onto the big wide pavement outside, whatever the weather, still bristling with radios and bags, guzzling cheap lager from the bar (or cheaper cans from the off-licence over the road), glowing with the euphoria, exhaustion and sweat of a day on the road, breaking off from conversations for a cheer or a slap on the back as someone else pulls up, stumbling or darting in and out of the crowd on a mission to round people up for an alleycat, or borrow a fiver, or find out if that rumour is really true about how…

FAVOURITE QUOTE

roll on friday

FINAL WORDS

The physical history is easy enough to spot – there are the graveyards, the buildings, the ruins of the old walls, the crazily crooked streets in the City, where modern buildings follow medieval lines. But the other histories, of what people did and thought and said and shared, are almost invisible. There’s the odd blue plaque here and there, usually commemorating some dead white guy who “lived and worked in this house”. But what of all the other others who’ve lived and worked here? They vanish without a trace. In a hundred years time, no one will know that there was such thing as a cycle courier, and that the people who did this improbable job used to congregate at a pub called the Foundry – or at the vents on Wood Street, or on the corner