I have been spending a fair amount of time in Scunthorpe for work this week, meaning my car is covered in a grimey cobalt steel gunk which is impossible to remove. Scunny, as it's affectionately known, is perhaps the dirtiest place I've ever come across, maybe because it's got the Corus factory slap bang in its grimy, black heart. The journey I've been making from Scunthorpe to Grimsby, past the Scrap Metal signs and roadside cafe establishments like Pete's Cafe and Ian's Cafe, is hardly the Pacific Coast Highway or the Great Trunk Road. I cleaned me car at Morrison's and it was as black as damascus by Immingham. Ah well. Whilst in Scun I applied for a marriage licence for me and Dee, filling in the form presented to me by one of the most disagreeable receptionists I have come across. Filling in the form I could hear the unmistakeable sounds of someone being restrained. Not sure if that's a good backdrop for marriage licenses, but there you go. Next door is the Honest Lawyer pub, with the Gallows restaurant upstairs. Didn't look worthy of a return visit.