Come with me to Wakefield, West Yorkshire, north of the Watford Gap. It’s early March so it’s T-shirt weather if you’re a local, all-season parka and balaclava if not. It’s a stop on the main London to Leeds rail service but I come the back way by local train because it’s prettier. And it’s funnier. From Huddersfield it chugs into Wakefield Kirkgate station, where one random person who doesn’t know any better gets off, then suddenly the train pulls away backwards, off down a siding to the proper station of Wakefield Westgate, where everyone else gets off, sniggering.

Out on Westgate itself I take a minute to tune my gaydar to the scene, intending to find the gay pubs without the help of a local. Fully focused, I wander off aimlessly, not even quite sure where town is.

Wakefield isn’t exactly grim but it isn’t picture-postcard either because, unlike the Dales, West Yorkshire was built for hard graft, not for looking at. So the buildings are handsome, grand edifices of local sandstone, while the windows are credit-crunch specials, all boarded up.

However, Wakefield does have an amazing, surprising medieval Cathedral in its centre, windows included and boasting the tallest spire in Yorkshire. Sadly some idiot built it directly opposite the scuzziest shopping centre in Christendom. Really, the council might consider opening a couple of pound shops in there, just to bring a touch of class to the place.