There I was, yes, I was. I know for you "travel writers" you should never talk about yourself...just about the place...anyway. I was walking towards Wigan from Bolton. I have always had a boyish desire to find Wigan Pier since I read Orwell’s odious ode to it.

So, I set out one cloudy, barmy day towards Wigan from West Houghton. A grey stone on the road stated that it was only 8 and 1/4 miles away. I walked. Red brick buildings passed from side to side. Chippies, pubs, off-licenses, terrace houses, farms, race tracks, and every thing but a school faded into a ruddy mass as I walked listening to Pink Floyd on shuffle on my posh Ipod.

As I entered Ince Several Small Creatures Grooving with a Pict came on. The crumbling buildings and piss stench somehow ingratiated the aura. The distinct smelt of over-used vegetable oil, laden with pie and batter, wafted over the miasma of fraudulent grammar and enunciation.

I carried on.

Then Wigan appeared in a blast of Apples and Oranges as more buildings crumbled and more fathers walked along the sidewalks with their offspring eating pies and blurping about the Wanders.

I, unlike George, was fortunate enough to have the benefit of little brown signs with white writing telling me exactly how to get to the Pier. I followed them as Comfortably Numb rang in my ears. You have to love the random brilliance of an Ipod, given I have 150 Pink Floyd tracks.

The mediocrity of the Pier came into view. The brown stone buildings on a dodgy Warf, surrounded by factories being turned into flats for upper-lower-middle-class types with nothing but credit to show for their social status, clinged to a narrow bit of water no longer with a point or purpose. Families strolled to-and-fro, baby in pram, perambulating...some Pakistani, some not, some right, some chav.

I drank my pint of lager and watched Scotch golf as England's, Wigan's citizens went from here to there. I was nonplussed.

I walked home listening to Rage Against the Machine. Why? Why not? Am I supposed to feel something for these people? Am I supposed to go up to the Pakistani family and say, 'Salam, I've been to Pakistan. I know your country is shit and understand why you came here. Fuck everyone else and keep plugging on. It worked in America for a few. It might work for you here.'?

Fuck off. They know it only worked in America for Europeans and African slaves. They aren't that insipid.

All I can do is commend them for surviving in a country that doesn't want them. So, I walk on, because giving them commendation is no more than a placation. And, I am not that morally presumptuous. If I was, I would be in India pretending I am helping children by sending them back to homes they have run away from.

Wake Up came into my ears as I re-entered West Houghton and the Lego-land. CCTV was watching my every move. I hadn't eaten a decent meal in weeks, then again, that is England for you. I proceeded to drink a large amount of ale.

It was better than pretending I was helping anyone from telling them how to live.