A couple of decades ago, anyone who was a fan massage parlours in the UK would, if prompted, agree with the statement that Greater Manchester held the title of “punting” capital of the UK. The city was peppered with parlours – the scene was buzzing, the babes were world famous for their hotness, and the reviews flowed on the message boards like there was no tomorrow (that is, until the credit crunch kicked in). Barring a couple of areas where the councils tended not to allow any to be set up, every part of the city would be blessed with at least one massage parlour staffed by a couple of “massage therapists”.
In all of this, more so than even the city centre, the centrepoint of massage parlours in the Golden Age was north Manchester, or, to be more accurate, a strip of land known as “The Punting Mile”. Starting in Cheetham Hill, and generally understood to end in Whitefield, the punting mile was a prime example of how economies of agglomeration work, with parlours clustered together in a way that benefitted both ladies and gents from from being massed in the same general area. Moving up the map, you’d have names which have largely faded into history, but are guaranteed to bring a tear to the eye of an elderly gent: Buntys, Aquarius, Darlings 4 U, Roses, Sandys, Hayleys, Cherrys and Karens. Most have since closed down, and while a couple of the places still exist, the phrase doesn’t have the same cachet as it did before.
So, what causes me to bring all of this up? Well, a couple of days ago, I happened to be in Prestwich village. More to the point, I was picking up an order from the best fish and chip place in the area – no, not Armstrongs aka The Home of the Jumbo Cod, but rather at Chips @ No 8, the home of poncy cod for people who like to post photos of their food on Instagram (although it is actually quiet tasty). Whilst keeping an eye open for the nefarious traffic wardens who patrol the local roads like crazy streetwalkers, I happened to note that a new pilates studio had opened right in front of the chippy. It then led me to contemplate
Now, the reason why I mention all of this is that a couple of days ago, I happened to be in Prestwich Village. More to the point, I was getting some food from the current hotOn the other hand, I absolutely loathe Xmas. From mid-August, the supermarkets start plying their shelves with shitty wares, until reaching an orgasmic crescendo of consumer spending in the final weeks of December, timed perfectly with non-stop Xmas hits on the radio and announcements everywhere wishing people a good “Festive Season” (whatever that is). Meanwhile, wherever you go, there is no longer any mention of Jesus, as there are new mascots for these seasonal times – in the past, it was that fat bastard Santa, but in more recent times, even he has been pushed aside in favour of that snotty green gremlin who goes by the name of “The Grinch”.
It gets worse! Every year, without fail, I have to take “Christmas photos”. Invariably, this means ladies dressed in red-and-white outfits brought from Ann Summers or Temu, topped off with a fluffy red Santa hat. You could say it is just seasonal marketing, but the dislike is for a simple reason: Xmas photos have a short shelf life. Once taken, you can only have them on a profile for maybe 6-8 weeks before you have to remove them, so it is work with minimal return. While you can leave lingerie or dress pics on a profile all year around, the same doesn’t apply to Xmas photos, so in all honesty, they are just a PITA.
Having got that off my chest, the ladies would like to wish you a good Christmas. Whether you are watching “Die Hard” or something a bit more traditional, may it be a safe and warm one. Failing that, you can just look at the festive pics which our ladies have online.
