It's Bleak Oop North!
I am in Manchester on an overnight visit to check out some important Victorian art at the city's Art Gallery, and also in order to experience something of the city that gave rise to the Moors Murders.
I can't think of anything to say that won't sound churlish. So, here it is:
The whole city is covered in cigarette butts to a degree that beggars imagination. I did a quick calculation and on average every square foot of pavement has ten butts within it - consequently, the entire city smells like a giant ashtray.
A mother shepherding her two kids from a bus stop yells at one of them, "Shurrup you! I'll fookin' batter yer."
There is clearly not a great deal of civic money available for things like maintenance of streets and buildings, which is not the Mancunians' fault, but nobody here seems to use the rubbish bins provided in the street. The entire city centre is strewn with fast food wrappers and empty plastic cups. Puddles of vomit glisten on street corners. Many buildings in the city date from the Victorian era and as I trudged through some parts of town I often felt transported to that era - but this may have been because the threat of cholera seemed a real possibility.
The Mancunians are famously no-nonsense people. This may be why every single transaction I made in shops, cafes, galleries etc was met with a really surly, even aggressive response - even from the attractive young women at the reception desk in my mildew-reeking hotel.
The traffic is chaotic because many of the streets in the city are traversed by trams, and because no pedestrian bothers to heed the traffic lights. Consequently, there is a continual stop-start of traffic so that drivers don't run over people who are walking in front of them. The very centre of town, where all the trams converge is a pure nightmare.On a related note, Mancunians appear to have a bizarre sense of direction when walking in the street. I can't count the number of people, of all ages, who just altered course in mid-movement, cutting each other off or bumping into people. It was like watching human dodgem cars in action.
Although I am glad to have experienced it, I don't think I will ever be likely to venture to this city again. As Morrissey once sang, 'Oh Manchester, so much to answer for'. It is now clear to me why so much great music has come out of this place - almost in retaliation.
In the evening I felt like exploring the city a bit further. The tourist book in the hotel room suggested a list of '10 Things You Have to do in Manchester'. The first was 'Cruising', so obviously my attention was pricked and I read on, but it turned out to involve a barge on the Manchester Ship Canal so I quickly lost interest. The second suggestion was 'Bowling', so you can see my point. But, steeling myself, I trolled downtown to Manchester's so-called 'Gay Village', which, so the official information promised, is "without doubt the liveliest area of the city and this is reflected by the number of pubs, bars and clubs dotted around Canal Street, or 'anal treet' as it's also affectionately known locally." In fact, it was like Melbourne's now-dreary Commercial Road on a wet Monday night. There were a few bars with a couple of guys in each. In one of them a sad drag queen stood on a tiny podium, performing to a couple of middle-aged truck drivers. I passed several predictably waspish queens sashaying along the Canal, which smelled like an open drain from where I was standing. After half an hour of this tedium I hurried back to the hotel to curl up with Dirk Bogarde.**
** Please note: This refers to the copy of Dirk's autobiography I took with me and is in no way meant to infer that I had somehow come into possession of the dishy actor's cadaver.
I can't think of anything to say that won't sound churlish. So, here it is:
The whole city is covered in cigarette butts to a degree that beggars imagination. I did a quick calculation and on average every square foot of pavement has ten butts within it - consequently, the entire city smells like a giant ashtray.
A mother shepherding her two kids from a bus stop yells at one of them, "Shurrup you! I'll fookin' batter yer."
There is clearly not a great deal of civic money available for things like maintenance of streets and buildings, which is not the Mancunians' fault, but nobody here seems to use the rubbish bins provided in the street. The entire city centre is strewn with fast food wrappers and empty plastic cups. Puddles of vomit glisten on street corners. Many buildings in the city date from the Victorian era and as I trudged through some parts of town I often felt transported to that era - but this may have been because the threat of cholera seemed a real possibility.
The Mancunians are famously no-nonsense people. This may be why every single transaction I made in shops, cafes, galleries etc was met with a really surly, even aggressive response - even from the attractive young women at the reception desk in my mildew-reeking hotel.
The traffic is chaotic because many of the streets in the city are traversed by trams, and because no pedestrian bothers to heed the traffic lights. Consequently, there is a continual stop-start of traffic so that drivers don't run over people who are walking in front of them. The very centre of town, where all the trams converge is a pure nightmare.On a related note, Mancunians appear to have a bizarre sense of direction when walking in the street. I can't count the number of people, of all ages, who just altered course in mid-movement, cutting each other off or bumping into people. It was like watching human dodgem cars in action.
Although I am glad to have experienced it, I don't think I will ever be likely to venture to this city again. As Morrissey once sang, 'Oh Manchester, so much to answer for'. It is now clear to me why so much great music has come out of this place - almost in retaliation.
In the evening I felt like exploring the city a bit further. The tourist book in the hotel room suggested a list of '10 Things You Have to do in Manchester'. The first was 'Cruising', so obviously my attention was pricked and I read on, but it turned out to involve a barge on the Manchester Ship Canal so I quickly lost interest. The second suggestion was 'Bowling', so you can see my point. But, steeling myself, I trolled downtown to Manchester's so-called 'Gay Village', which, so the official information promised, is "without doubt the liveliest area of the city and this is reflected by the number of pubs, bars and clubs dotted around Canal Street, or 'anal treet' as it's also affectionately known locally." In fact, it was like Melbourne's now-dreary Commercial Road on a wet Monday night. There were a few bars with a couple of guys in each. In one of them a sad drag queen stood on a tiny podium, performing to a couple of middle-aged truck drivers. I passed several predictably waspish queens sashaying along the Canal, which smelled like an open drain from where I was standing. After half an hour of this tedium I hurried back to the hotel to curl up with Dirk Bogarde.**
** Please note: This refers to the copy of Dirk's autobiography I took with me and is in no way meant to infer that I had somehow come into possession of the dishy actor's cadaver.
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