Two lads who worked in the kitchens of the Everyman on Hope Street were very funny. A skinny white lad and a black lad both good mates from the bullring round the corner.
They had blended their shared music over time. It was ace.
They would flip from Def Jam to Motörhead with ease. I’d watch them quizzically when washing the pots.
Killed by Death a favourite.
They were both proper tough lads. At breaks they would let me put on boxing gloves and pick which one that day I could take on. We would toss the boxes from the fruit and veg down the back which acted like a soft landing pad for me as I barely lasted two seconds, good naturedly hurtled into the boxes with my mismatched gloves.
Motörhead. Good memories.