The trip to Manchester begins with an argument with my brother Paul. Most conversations go that way since he is such a tremendous prick. The chip on his credit card hasn't worked for months. This means unless a retailer accepts the swipe he's shit out of luck. He swears up and down the card works fine "95% of the time". He is either lying or stupid or both. He ordered a new card before he came to England (my idea, since it "works just fine").
Now we sit on a train to Manchester. Not speaking. He's an antisocial baby with an ipad. Im a level headed blogger venting steam.
He wants to go clubbing, Mom doesn't think its a good idea since she had to hold his drunken hand on the flight over. "I'm a grown man" he asserts, but yet he can't book a flight or pay the hydro bill.
Im off the train at Preston without looking back. I don't care if he made the transfer or not.