In my opinion a funny old place full of agreeably mad Oirish who spend half their lives drinking and shagging and the other half pretending they're not mad for drinking and shagging. If they could just get over the Catholic guilt trip thing ...
If you have good whoredar there are I think ad hoc opportunities in abundance. Or take the easy way out and point your radiator grille down the East Lancs or M62, which is what I used to do. Outside London, Mancs seemed to be the punting capital of the UK, though I rarely made it further than the nearest Mancs parlour, which for me was The Gallery in Irlam, between the legs of the M62 and M6, near the Thelwall Viaduct.
