Welcome to the first edition of Andy Writes.
There are no shiny pictures. No quinoa salad recipes, and no tips for manifesting your dream holiday. Ink and paper. Or pixels that look like it. And whatever thoughts happen to rattle out of the old typewriter before the tea gets cold.
I've lived in this city for a long time. I was born here. Went out into the world. And then came back. I've seen the factories close. The flats go up. The old boozers turn into coffee shops that charge four quid for a warm bun. People have changed. They’ve gone from neighbours who’d lend you a cup of sugar to faces glued to their phones, ignoring you as you walk by.
But there are still stories here. You have to sit in the snug long enough to hear them, or walk along the street when the mist is rising off the road.
I’ll talk about the things I see. The places I go. And the gossip from the city, the rain on the roofs, and why the price of everything is such a big political issue today.
If you like it, buy a copy (or click whatever link you're supposed to click). If you don't, there's a chip shop down the road that'll use it to wrap your chips and sixpenn'orth of scraps. Either way, it's print. At least, I like to think it counts. I know, I'm old.