When the tunnel was constructed int the 1960's it must have sounded like a good idea; providing pedestrians with access to the majestic countryside beyond the M61. I remember looking forward to my first country walk, but as I stepped into the tunnel I was hit by a foul smell of glue and urine. I was surprised to notice it was full of youths lying on the floor giggling, and some of them were inexplicably stroking the walls. However they seemed to be too comatose to represent an actual threat and I ventured deeper into the tunnel. Then I noticed a teenager smoking a cigar who seemed to be conversing with a drainage pipe. I kept my head down and preceded past him, but he wheeled round and agressively announced, "You're fired!". Unsurprisingly, I didn't know how to respond and then another youth began tugging at my trouser leg. Holding out about two pounds in loose change, he pleaded, "Will you go to the shop for us?" I paused to look around and then bolted for the other side of the tunnel.  Once I was back into the fresh air and free of the chemical haze, I felt revitalised and set off for the woodlands of the Nab. Appart from being littered with cans of special brew, I noticed that  the setting was not unpleasant. But then I felt a stinging pain in my back and heard hoots of jouvenile laughter. I swore aloud in my native Spanish and it dawned on me that I was caught up in an air-rifle battle. I heard a cry of, "He's a fuckin' frog. Kill 'im!" and once more I decided to run. After what seemed like hours of stepping in bogs and dodging sniper fire I ended up in Brinscall and caught the bus home.  I now realise why most people choose to risk death by crossing 6 lanes of high speed motorway traffic rather than risk the tunnel, though it is home to some of the regions finest graffiti. I also wish to point out that I don't object to teenagers having a good time, but if you really have to sniff somthing, try cocaine not glue and then go to a nice party.

In Honduras we don't have any gays because it is a Roman Catholic country, so I was fascinated to see Chorley's famous gay subculture. The epicentre is Pall Mall and the further away from the town centre you go, the more outrageous it becomes. The first bar you come across, oppposite the Normid Complex is the ‘Eagle and Child’. Also popular with straight people, becuase by night it is a liberal safe haven from the wanton violence of the rest of the centre and during the day it attracts hopeless characters who have just lost half their giro in the betting shop next door. At the other extreme are the ‘Black Boy’ and the ‘Sebastapol Inn’ which attract the leather cap and bushy moustache brigade. At first these gay bars can be quite intimidating as most men are bare chested and more people are in the queue for the toilet than in the bar itself, but the richness of the characters makes the experience ultimately rewarding and the atmosphere during the ritual playing of ‘The Weather Girl’s’ smash hit ‘It’s Raining Men’ is electric.

One Saturday afternoon. after 5 years of living in Chorley, I came out of Malcolm's Music-and-Pramland after another fruitless search of Malcolm's bargain basket. Suddenly noticed a very pale old man standing calmly on the roof above Greenwood's menswear. I was both confused and alarmed, but as I got nearer I noticed it was a statue of a haughty Victorian gentleman and had obviously been there for a long time. I have discussed the statue at length in various bars, but no one seems to know who he is or why he is perched so precariously above a menswear shop. Suspiciously, the manager of Greenwoods seemed disinterested in the statue and refused to let me record our coversation on tape. Please e-mail us If you can provide any additional information.

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