Bristol, Manchester, The Twilight Zone, and Past, Present. Sometimes on Acid For A Few.
Now, this is what I write with virtually no sleep whatsoever!
Well. Where Do I even begin, exactly?
Having left the warmth of my Bristol home early last Monday morning for Greater Manchester, and finally getting my head down shortly before sunrise on Monday in the Lancashire town of Leigh, all I can say is that the brass monkeys up there have no need to fear of any competition from down South. My only salvation being the glowing warmth of a log burner to stop my arteries from entering a cryogenic state and me not waking up for a decade.
To be fair, it was only a matter of being a couple of degrees colder, if that. But it was enough for my Southern sensitivity to become noticeable. As for day one, if Spielberg himself had of been filming a zombie movie in the locality that I'd stumbled on in my stupor, I would have assumed to be an extra and come fully made up for the part. Mind you, not that I need much in the way of make-up at the best of times!
Anyway, it's now Friday morning and I'm back in Bristol, having arrived yesterday evening. Now, given that it's in the region of a three-hour journey - depending on traffic, as soon as my head hit the pillow I was out light the proverbial light, and I can only assume that something very strange must of happened during my slumber. You see, on waking this morning I felt that I must have travelled from somewhere on the far side of the Pacific and one time zone to another, and I was twenty-four hours out. A sort of unexplained jet lag-type feeling it will take the entire weekend to recover from, if at all. So, should you find, by any chance, this blog piece suddenly ending abruptly, I've either snoozed off in the process of writing, or, somewhere between Manchester and Bristol I entered the twilight zone and I've taken an altogether different journey to a hole six feet under.
Now, while speaking of the unexplained. Well, to me, at least. Am I one of the sane few of us remaining in a world of bullshit?
Okay. I think I'll stick with Manchester, then and now, for the sake of both yours and my sanity!
Ah, Manchester. Back in my day, if you wanted a pint, you went to the pub, not some hipster microbrewery. And if you wanted milk, you didn't get it delivered by some fancy van – you got it delivered by Securicor (for the most part in Moss Side, as I recall)! Now, that's what I call a bit of security. Mind you, back then, security was more about not getting nicked for nicking a bag of chips off the chippy than it was about terrorism.
Remember Piccadilly Radio? 261 on the dial. Ray Teret, Phil Wood – legends. Now, you get these DJs, all skinny jeans and beards, talking about "vibes" and "urban grooves." Whatever they are. Back then, music was simple: it was either good or it was rubbish. No in-between. And if it was rubbish, you'd just turn the telly on and watch Coronation Street. Now, they've got more channels than you can shake a stick at, and all they show is bloody reality TV.
The IRA... aye, them. They brought the city to its knees a few times, but you know what? People got back up. Always did. Always will. That's Manchester for you. Resilient. Like a cockroach. Hard to kill.
Football? Ah, football. United. City. Two sides of the same coin, really. Both obsessed with glory, both capable of the sublime and the ridiculous. United, with their Busby Babes and Fergie's Fledglings, they were the kings for a while. Now? They're more interested in filling their pockets than winning trophies. City... well, they've gone from laughing stock to global superstars. All that money, all those foreign players. Makes you wonder what old Jack Rowley would make of it all.
The Hacienda... now that was a club. Acid house, New Order, the lot. Changed the face of music, it did. But it's gone now. Just another empty shell. A bit like Manchester itself, really. Lost a bit of its soul, it has.
The Commonwealth Games... they did wonders for the city, that's for sure. All that new infrastructure. But it also brought in a load of tourists. And you know what tourists are like. They don't know a good chippy from a bad one.
So, has Manchester changed? Aye, it has. But it's still Manchester. Still got that same grit, that same sense of humour. Still a bit rough around the edges, but still a bloody good place to be. Well, in my view anyway.
Disclaimer: This is a satirical take and does not reflect the views of all Mancunians. In case you didn't know by now!
