“I start drinking heavy and gambling what little money we had. It’s the usual story, you never win in a Bookies when you need to. When the Gods of Chance see you on the floor bleeding, that’s when they start looking for their Doc Martens. I’ll tell you, over a short period of months I had every misfortune you could possibly encounter in a fucking bookmakers. Stewards Enquiries, Objections, PhotoFinishes, and during one fucking memorable dog race the hare broke down with mine in front.
So there I am, in debt up to me bloodshot eyes. Behind with me mortgage. On a final warning at work, and I feel like Lemuel Gulliver, a thousand little ropes tying me down. When one night Robbie comes to our house with a chequebook and card. He’s gonna sell to a lad called Freddie at four pound a page. I take one look at the signature, decide I can do it, and I’m launched into a Kiting career.”
Low Life delves into the criminal underbelly of Manchester. It’s a comic look at the life of small time operators, petty thieves and credit card swindlers. This is a world peopled by the kind of ignoble heroes Dickens might have created if he’d still been kicking. If there ever was a novel to disprove the motto ‘honour among thieves’, then this is it. It’s uniquely Mancunian, it’s uniquely north Manchester. More than one city exists here. The one in Low Life is the city that the tourist marketing board will never tell you about.
