Day 11: Oh Manchester, so much to answer fer...

We wake refreshed after a night at the Oaklands Road headquarters of the Nightingales, and one by one descend to the kitchen to eat the sumptuous breakfast Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley has prepared for us all. There is toast and kippers, bacon, eggs, sausages, potato cakes, mushrooms, black pudding (a type of local Blutwurst, I believe), grilled tomatoes, tinned beans (a distinctly British addition to the breakfast menu), fried green tomatoes (from the Whistlestop Cafe, around the corner), samosas, pakora, waffles, maple syrup, preserves (blackcurrant, apricot, strawberry, raspberry), a curious foul-tasting concoction called ‘Marmite’, cereals of various kinds, tea, coffee, juices, a selection of lagers (including Stella Artois, of course), Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer bars, and bananas.

As people enter the kitchen, Apperley breaks off from the ironing he is doing to serve each band member as he or she settles at the kitchen table. Last down to breakfast is Lloyd, who waives aside the cornucopia prepared by Apperley in favour of a simpler, more frugal breakfast: a litre bottle of his beloved High Commissioner whiskey.

The band are elated after last night’s peformance and are excited about tonight’s gig in Manchester, one of the great music cities of the UK. It is also, I learn, a city that has particular resonance for Lloyd and Apperley who, as members of ground-breaking punk band The Prefects, formed a particularly close relationship with the Manchester punk scene, influencing such bands as Buzzcocks, The Fall, Joy Division, The Smiths, Happy Mondays and The Stone Roses, none of whom would have existed had not The Prefects established the classic template of austere yet danceable guitar-based, lyrically-driven slices of existentialist angst, shot through with dark humour.

As we make our way to Manchester in Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell’s formidable land-cruiser, I sit beside Mark ‘Ace’ Jones who is clutching his first Stella Artois of the day. My pre-tour researches tell me that Jones is a widely-respected academic in the field of cultural studies. His specialist topic is Jack ‘The’ Ripper, and so I take the opportunity to ask him about his interest in this legendary Victorian villain. “My main concern,” says Jones, clearly animated by the topic, “is to show that everybody else’s theories as to who the Ripper might have been are not only misguided but are, in fact, totally wrong. If I can demonstrate that all the so-called Ripperologists to date are ludicrously awry as to who the Ripper was, then my own theory is, by default, the only one left standing."

I’m intrigued by Jones’s ambitions and press him on his own theory. If all the rival theories as to the identity of Jack ‘The‘ Ripper are wrong, as Jones clearly thinks they are, then who, in his opinion, was the real Jack? As I put this question to him, Jones’s demeanour changes. He scowls at me from between his curtains of hair, his dark-tinted Ozzy Ozbourne glasses seeming to darken even more as he speaks through gritted teeth: “Oh yes,” he hisses, “you’d love to know, wouldn’t you? You’d love me to reveal my secret theory to you so that you could steal it and pass it off as your own. I know your game, Kuntz. You’re all the same you unbelievers. But one day, one day, you’ll all bow down before my superior knowledge. One day you’ll all call me King of the Ripperologists. All hail the King of the Ripperologists!” Jones sinks back into his seat, muttering darkly to himself.

“Jack. He’s lovely, too,” says Kitson, briefly looking up from her phone.