In which Matthew learns a lesson about England

I once believed that everything sounds cute when you say it in a northwestern English accent. But cut to me last night, maybe 2am, lying awake in a co-ed Chester hostel in the most private bunk I could find, listening to the rhythms of drunken Mancunians who were in for the summer races:

"No. No. Get ou' of 'ere. Yeh don't belong in this bunk."
"Well it i'n't your bunk either."
"Get yehr fat ahse ou' of me bed!"
"I'm not fat, yeh're fat!"
"No, yeh're fat!"
"No, yeh're fat!"
"No, yeh're fat!"
"Well, there's ONE part of me tha's chubby..."

This continues for about an hour. Which takes us to about 2:45am:

"Come on, luv. Touch it."
"No!"
"Just play wiv the head a little."
"No..."
"That's better. Wiv the head."

Which continues through about 3:30am or 4am, as I'm trying to thread my sandpapery sheets through the bunk above mine and tie them into a noose:

"Come on, luv, put a little effort into it. It's no' a piece a meat. Treat it wiv some care. Like it's yeh friend."

And so forth. With groans included, both mine (in frustration) and the Mancunian's (in bliss?). I stayed awake and paranoid, IMing with Alec through the whole thing -- a Liverpudlian friend of mine had made the mistake of leaving his bunk temporarily, and found that another drunk visitor, in for the races, had usurped his bunk. All my worldly possessions were in and around my bunk, and I couldn't imagine what might happen to them in my absence, and so I chose the devil I knew (intimately) over the devil I didn't.