“You seem to know a lot of people in Wigan.”

My comment was made after Carol had exchanged greetings with several passers-by during our walk to the park.

Carol laughed, indicating that she knew that I had just exposed my lack of understanding of the town.

“I don’t know any of the people that have said hello.”

“So why did you return the greeting?”

“That’s just what us Wiganers do. We’re friendly folk, you know.”

“Let me get this straight: you quite happily say hello to people who are complete strangers?”

“Yes. That’s what it is like here. It is a friendly town.”

“I have never heard of such an absurd concept!”

Although I had been brought up in the North-West of England, which is known for being a friendly region, this seemed a little extreme. Perhaps this was because I am an introvert. My instincts have always been to escape each scenario that I find myself in without suffering any embarrassment or physical harm. During my school days, I would literally keep my head down and try to keep social interaction to an absolute minimum. One could say that I have been practicing a form of social distancing all of my life.

I would be wary if a stranger said hello to me. Are they going to attempt to murder me, mug me, or just lure me into a financial scam? A simple walk to the shops would become a mission which consisted of avoiding anything unpleasant happening to me during those five minutes spent outside of the house. The strange thing is that nothing of this nature has ever happened to me. I have had an easy life which has contained little suffering or anguish.

I began spending my weekends in Wigan after I first met Carol in 2012. I soon discovered that Wigan is indeed a friendly town in which strangers will often exchange a kind word or two. This has become even more apparent after I moved here in 2017.

Despite the welcoming locals, it almost felt like I was moving to another country. It sometimes seems that Wiganers are speaking a completely different language from the rest of England. Consequently, there have been many occasions in which I have had to ask Carol to translate for me. I have been able to decipher some of the phrases, such as “put wood in th’ole,” which means “shut the door.”

However, there have been many comments which have left me stumped. It is common for a Wiganer to say something along the lines of: “Am feeling reet klempt, I need jackbit.” The first time that I heard this, I thought that the person who uttered the phrase needed to use the toilet. It actually means: “I am really hungry. I need to get something to eat.”

I was unsure if I was being subjected to homophobic abuse when I heard someone say “powfagged,” but this apparently means “extremely tired.”

“Tha’s gerrin on mi wazz!” caused me similar exasperation. Outside of Wigan, people are more likely to say: “You are getting on my nerves!”

Despite the strange utterances from the locals, there are times in which the Wiganese vocabulary seems rather limited. Any positive situation is invariably described as “beltin!” If something has exceeded expectation, this may be upgraded to “bloody beltin!”

The food in Wigan can add to the feeling that you are in a different country to the rest of the United Kingdom. One of the town’s signature dishes is the Wigan kebab, which consists of a pie in a barm. In upmarket restaurants, this is often topped with tomato ketchup. I must admit that I am fond of this local delicacy!

Staying on this subject, I was astonished to discover the sheer amount of pie shops in the town. I knew that Wiganers like their pies (after all, they are referred to as ‘pie eaters’) but I did not expect to see two or three pie shops next door to each other. I have often pondered if there is a local regulation stating that there must be at least two pie shops in every row of retail units.

A Wiganer may indulge in a meal consisting of a babby’s yed (baby’s head), pey wet and a smack. Although this sounds like a menu that was designed by a masochistic cannibal, babby’s yed is how Wigan folk describe a steak and kidney pudding, pey wet is the juice from mushy peas, and a smack is a potato fritter. A more popular combination is a smack barm, pey wet. Understandably, a Wiganer would receive a bemused look, or a punch in the face, if they tried to order this in another part of the country.

Perhaps Wiganers’ love of food is reflected by the fact that the Heinz factory in Kitt Green is the largest food processing plant in Europe. Forget London, Paris or Madrid; Kitt Green is the food manufacturing powerhouse of the continent! Indeed, the factory produces more than a billion cans of food each year.

I hope that my father-in-law’s eating habits are not the norm for people in Wigan, otherwise they are missing out on the joys of the various food that one can sample from around the world. Remarkably, Bert has never tried rice, pasta, Indian cuisine or Chinese food! He has not even had a cup of coffee in his lifetime! His diet consists of the traditional British fare of meat and vegetables. And pies, of course. I have visited more than sixty countries throughout the world but Bert’s reluctance to sample other foods has been one of my most shocking discoveries.

The quirky culinary preferences should not be too much of a surprise; after all, this is the town that is famous for having a pier that is not a pier. This was originally a coal-loading staithe, where wagons from a nearby colliery were unloaded into waiting barges on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

It was jokingly referred to as a pier by locals, with George Formby Sr. popularising this term. Incidentally, his son would go on to become one of the town’s most celebrated residents due to his humorous songs, which often incorporated the use of a ukulele. The song he is most remembered for is “When I’m Cleaning Windows.”

George Orwell immortalised the “pier” in his 1937 book The Road to Wigan Pier. Despite Orwell painting a rather bleak picture of Wigan, the town embraced the notoriety that it brought. There was a restaurant-bar named The Orwell that was situated by Wigan pier, but it has since closed its doors to the public. After seeing some of the town’s  uninspiring buildings, I can certainly understand why Orwell once said: “I liked Wigan very much – the people, not the scenery.”

Before moving to the area, I was unaware that the artistic heritage of Wigan included notable names such as The Verve and Sir Ian McKellen. Nor did I know that Wigan Casino was regarded as the spiritual home of the Northern Soul music movement.

The sight of one local institution has been unavoidable though, as I pass the Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls factory every working day after I return to Wallgate Station in the evening. The sweet manufacturer has been producing the popular mints since 1898, with the factory being in its current location since 1919. It was strange to see Prince Charles visit this aging building as part of the site’s centenary celebrations. Perhaps Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls keep Prince Charles all aglow.

I have enjoyed seeing the town celebrate its sporting success in recent years. Wigan Warriors have won three Super League titles, a Challenge Cup and a World Club Challenge trophy since I first stepped foot in the town. Given the fact that they are the most successful club in rugby league history, the Warriors have been a source of pride for Wigan’s residents for decades.

The football team, Wigan Athletic, have a more modest history but they provided a moment which I treasure almost as much as their supporters do. My adopted hometown club stunned big-spending Manchester City in the 2013 FA Cup final, which was particularly pleasing to me, given that I am a Manchester United fan. Carol thought I was having a heart attack after Ben Watson scored a last-gasp winner!

It was worthy of a place in the footballing dictionary that exists between me and my friend Paul. For an unfancied team to pull off an upset against a top side, they require a “Ben Watson,” i.e. they need to score so late that the other team have no time to respond.

Other entries include “Bale,” which is uttered when someone fails to reach the ball before the defender . This implies that Gareth Bale would somehow have nicked the ball away from the opposition player (which is illogical, given that he spends more time on the treatment table than on the pitch these days). We say “Caroll,” when someone can’t quite reach a header (Andy Caroll could have though, despite his ailing body meaning that he would probably pull his hamstring by attempting to jump for the ball).

If someone had told a younger version of myself that I would spend months stuck in my home in Wigan, I would have experienced a feeling of despair. As it turns out, I am lucky to be spending lockdown in a reet friendly town.