What if The Trafford Centre was seen for what it is, a colossal tick, sucking on the banks of the Manchester Ship Canal and the generations of meat formed around it, a vampiric vortex, debriding the lazy sediment of lumpen proletarian dreams, anaethetising revolutionary energy into a slow Sunday promenade around the deck of the titanic or king solomons mines. Shop fronts' gleam: 'Adornos'', 'Brechts', 'Paradise'... they shuffle on, checking themselves against the prosperous bourgeois in mirrored avenues. Public capitalism - celebrity, in Los Angeles, Hollywood - Trafford, capital transfigured into slip-on shoes, industrialised culture, cheap plastic goods piled high in barbaric pyres. Wagner plays.
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