The last two days have been spent in Manchester. I am here with Sellers. Sellers is a colleague, he is not a salesman, or called that, its just what I call him here. We stayed at the splendid 'Midland'. Freshly decorated, we could still smell the paint. My room is huge, his is tiny, that's funny. I am normally the one that gets the small room. Apparently Mr Rolls and Mr Royce first met here in the 'Midland'.

We arrived on Tuesday 9th May. This was also the date Roy Keane played his Manchester United testimonial at Old Trafford. They were playing Celtic. We wondered why there were so many blokes wearing Celtic tops on the train from Reading to Manchester. Now we knew. It turns out the 70 thousand capacity stadium is sold out.

We spent some time with the customer in the afternoon, as it would happen, in Old Trafford. Old Trafford from the city centre is a simple matter of catching one tram, its about 4 stops and no more than 10 minutes.

On the way back to the city centre the tram was busy, but not as packed as the one going the other way, bursting at the seams with despondent commuters and very happy green and white wearing men. As I got on the tram, I grabbed the rail above and popped my computer bag on the floor. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. He his young, small, I would say about 18. “Would you like my seat?”

I am speechless, I know I didn't sleep much last night, drove from Sussex at 5:45am and have travelled from Reading to Manchester, but! do I look like I need your seat!!? Unspoken. I sat down, more because it just seemed the thing to do. He stood in front of me. I had lots of questions for him, I considered beating the answers out of him. I had another mid-life crises during that 10 minute journey, is this where old age begins? At the end, I got up, tapped him on the shoulder and said “thanks”.

Manchester city centre at 5PM was a sea of green and white. Irish and Scottish voices, hailing cabs, leaning through car windows asking for directions. They stood arms linked outside bars, bouncing up and down chanting; keano! keeano!! keeeano!!!

There is a little boy, maybe 6. He is dressed almost identically to his dad, jeans, celtic scarf tied around his waist, wearing a celtic shirt. He is so excited that running around wildly is pointless. He just jumps up and down emulating his father, fit to burst, at the edge of the busy road. The proximity to the road seems to indicate his mother is not close, but I hope she is here, somewhere. There are not many women to be seen. His father, lager in one hand, other arm wrapped around the shoulders of another, keeano! I would guess he is 4 to 5 hours from passing out. Manchester won 1 – 0. I often wonder what happened to the little boy.

Later, almost mid-night. We leave a Chinese restaurant. I don't know the score, so I ask the guy coming the other way on the stairs. He is with another guy wearing a Celtic shirt. He has an Irish accent I just do not understand, later I am told its West Belfast. This means nothing to me. His words seem coherent. I do notice his eyes are lifeless, cold. In those final wordless moments something malevolent about him passed through us, the other 5 guys with us stopped, the fun draining from them. I feared for a sudden burst of violence. Fortunately the moment passed by and I spent the first two hours of May 10th in the hotel bar with Sellers.