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Ghosts and diesel pumps  - Saturday and Sunday 27/28 January

29/1/2018

8 Comments

 
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A PSYCHIC medium called Lee came on my Chetham’s tour on Saturday. He’s a pleasant man, very gentle and gracious and had previously come on my Mayfield tour. I am naturally of a sceptical cast of mind but it’s always interesting listening to those who consider themselves in touch with ‘the other side’. Turns out he had three ‘experiences’ or ‘visions’ or ‘manifestations’ at Chetham’s  – not sure of the right word.

By the main gate he saw a group of young boys seemingly at play. The costumes he described could have been those of the ‘poor boys’ admitted in the late 1600s. He thought these spirits were happy in themselves. Then in the Baronial Dining Room he saw a group of gentlemen from the early 1700s having a serious meeting but again nothing threatening.
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However, in the Audit Room, which already has a hell mouth carving of a demon eating a sinner (see picture below) and a burn mark supposedly from Satan, he found himself standing next to a beautiful young woman from the nineteenth century in a striking red dress to which something terrible had happened. Oh dear. 
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This echoed Lee’s Mayfield tour experience. He’d ‘seen’ a dead man from 1968 walking up and down one of the platforms his soul stuck in time and lost up there. There was nothing troubling about him though. Meanwhile in one of the old parcel offices in the depot he sensed 'a very dark presence’ and that something awful had occurred which was hidden from him.

Now like I say I am of a sceptical mind but when you are alone in these ancient, on the one hand, and abandoned, on the other hand, places, you can’t help things playing on your mind. Why can’t all ghosts be happy ghosts, just hanging around because they so enjoyed it down here and can’t let go.

By the way the diesel pump in Mayfield is becoming a celebrity on the tours. It’s a seventies entity in vivid yellow with a Total tag for Total Oil. It’s a handsome devil too and in the quiet of the vast Mayfield depot, in my mind’s eye, I imagine it comes alive and hops around the depot when nobody is there. Matt Wilkinson, a photographer, came on the Sunday tour and took some marvellous images, including one of the diesel pump, below. I particularly like the picture at the top of this page too of the rows of iron pillars receding into the distance, like something from the Lord of the Rings..
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It was my birthday on Saturday  - 27 January. And that of Alice in Wonderland’s Lewis Carroll. Or Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, as he was called when he was born in Daresbury, 21 miles from Manchester in 1832. There’s some sort of connection in that. There’s something very ‘down the rabbit hole’ and ‘through the looking glass’ about my occupation of writing on lots of different things from food to architecture to politics, taking people into places they’ve never been and into places that may have been closed for decades, while writing on imagined or illusionary buildings and projects.
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27 January is also a very sombre day as it marks the liberation of Auschwitz and is thus International Holocaust Day. I took the family to Auschwitz several years ago, everybody should visit. It never leaves you and nor should it. Alice and death camps. 27 January, it seems, is absurdity and horror. I suppose one way or another every day is, somewhere in this imperfect world. Not the most cheerful of thoughts but pertinent given what Holocaust Day represents. 
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The North

28/1/2018

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​I initially wrote this in 2013 for Manchester Confidential when Paul Morley's book The North was released. The passages below (slightly amended) preceded an interview with Morley.

MAYBE we should all write down what our North is.

For me it’s a complex of positives and negatives which adds up to the only place I ever want to live. It fits me like a glove. Like an old sock. I know its ways, its bad habits and its peculiar joys.

At its best it’s the spirit of independence melded with cleverness and humour, at my end of the North that means Anthony Burgess, Robert Peel, John Bright, Lydia Becker, Elizabeth Gaskell, Elizabeth Raffald, Joseph Brotherton, Sam Bamford, Joan Bakewell, Anthony Wilson, Lemn Sissay, hotpot, Lancashire cheese, steak and cow heel pie, curry, and pint after pint of golden ale.

​It's family.

It’s the Smiths, Doves and Mark E Smith. It’s Caroline Aherne and Steve Coogan and Les Dawson. It’s Chetham's Library, United, Liverpool, City, my home town of Rochdale, LCCC and the National Cycling Centre. MIF. It’s the 25 Nobel prize winners from Manchester University. It’s liberating. It's the Miners Community Arts & Music Centre and Small Cinema in Moston, creating something out of nothing with their bare hands. It's innovation, entrepreneurship and radicalism. It’s the Fifth Pan-African National Congress. It’s multi-cultural, yet it’s about a sense of identity.
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But I know it’s also Bernard Manning and 8% of a low-turnout voting Nick Griffin as a Euro MP in 2008. It’s Shameless and people being somehow proud of that show, it’s the strange adulation of Bez, it’s a chip on the shoulder, a vehicle for condescension and it’s about understanding the anger that comes from that. It’s about the disaffection that led so many of our towns to vote Brexit. It’s the segregation within those towns between groups of different ethnicity as highlighted in the Panorama programme of 22 January about Blackburn. It can be reductive.
It’s moorland and wooded cloughs, disused mills, grand Town Halls, church spires and council estates, weavers cottages and millstone grit, it’s brick, it’s brash, it’s high meadows and crazy sunsets at the end of dull days.

It can be breath-takingly more beautiful than anywhere else in these British islands and fifteen miles away it can be irredeemably uglier than anywhere in these British islands.

It’s a mass extinction, revealed in massive masonry by the side of rivers, peeping from under greenery. A place where you guess a factory once reared high above, where hundreds of humans worked long hours in clog and shawl at a time when through the Royal Exchange in Manchester 6.6bn linear yards of cloth flowed with nearest rival Japan producing a paltry 56m linear yards.

It’s the spark that’s left the furnace.

It’s a sense that maybe the really important times are over. That every dog has its day and that we’ve had ours. It’s the hope that if we once had all that, then the North can rise again - and is rising led by the transformation of Liverpool and Manchester. It’s the doubt contained within this transformation that much of this new money wasn’t generated anywhere in the North.

It’s the almost hand-moulded hills of the Trough of Bowland, the sandstone and views of Alderley Edge, the sheer effortless beauty of the Lune Valley, the can-this-be-real drama and gentleness of the Lake District, the ludicrous sand dunes at Formby.

It’s the empty urban areas of east and north Manchester, the shattered districts of inner Liverpool, demoralised small towns such as Radcliffe and Widnes. It’s boarded up pubs and shops and worse, the hundreds of cut off, isolated, estates such as Langley or Hattersley or Kirkby that make me seethe with rage about the inhuman planning disaster of post World War II Britain – that internal diaspora played out with more brutal potency in the heavily populated North than just about anywhere.

It’s the endless transition between well-to-do and poor, between haves and have nots, between wilderness and towns.

It’s the place where you see the skull beneath the British skin more obviously than anywhere else. The North is the rough with the smooth. It’s where, as Jim McClellan wrote, ‘the social processes are more visible’.

Yet the North is all about the people who’ve achieved, not through privilege and inheritance, but through ‘nous’ - although I know I may be kidding myself.

And losing steam.

And repeating myself.

Because of course when I talk about the North I’m only really ever talking about the North West, my bit.

And I’m only ever really talking about me.
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The Best Dressed Indian Italian Scouser, Lubbock, Tragedy, Comedy

3/1/2018

1 Comment

 
​2017 ended and 2018 began with public tours on the Discover Manchester programme. This is where a group of guides under the heading Manchester Guided Tours have teamed up to provide tours everyday at 11am: that’s every day including Christmas Day. They’re excellent value, under £10, and the tours provide a general introduction to Manchester rather than being themed on a specific subject.

For the guide it’s a voyage of discovery too, as you have no idea who might turn up and where they might come from. The two small groups I picked up from the 11am rendezvous location outside Central Library before and after New Year, included people from Germany, Canada, Belgium, USA, China, as well as closer to home in Preston, Prestwich, Stockport and Manchester.

For these tours my usual route is St Peter’s Square, Central Library, Town Hall Extension, Albert Square, St Ann’s Church, Royal Exchange with a finish at the Cathedral, or at the rear of the latter, at the National Football Museum. This route hits several prominent city centre buildings while also covering a richness of history that no other provincial city can compete with in the UK. Yeah, I know, that’s a bold statement, but I stand by it. Come on the tour and you’ll understand why. It’s also a route that takes guests inside a lot of buildings, which as well as providing occasionally welcome shelter, provides a more comprehensive tour than simply keeping on the streets.

On 2 January there were two guests from Lubbock, Texas. One of this pair lives in Cologne for the time being and was showing his friend some other parts of Europe with a non-traditional itinerary of Dublin, Manchester, Antwerp and then back to Cologne. “What’s Lubbock, Texas, like?” I asked. “It’s got the Buddy Holly museum, is in a cotton growing area, is very flat, has a quarter of a million inhabitants but it’s four hours from the nearest  major city,” said one of the friends. “You could describe it as the most disappointing city in the USA,” said his pal with a grin. “Wow,” I said, “they should market it that way, people flock to places with a point of exception. The city authorities could have a campaign called ‘Lubbock, it always disappoints.’”

Strangely enough this observation from citizens of the city made me want to go to Lubbock. Places that seem dour to the natives often have something worthwhile to experience for visitors. Part of the paradox of tourism is that residents feel contempt for qualities visitors find fascinating. Not that I'm a big Buddy Holly fan. 

My last tour of 2017 had included an extremely dapper gentleman with a bow tie.  When I'd asked the guests where they hailed from, our dandy self-described as an Indian Italian Scouser working at Manchester Royal Infirmary. I said not only are you the first Indian Italian Scouser I’ve ever met but you’re the best dressed Indian Italian Scouser I’ve ever met. The two Canadians on the group were visiting because the male half of the couple was a football fanatic who supports Everton Football Club passionately through a family connection. He was here to visit the National Football Museum and the two Manchester clubs before attending a game at Goodison Park in Liverpool.

Couple of final points.

The best thing I overheard in a Manchester pub over the New Year was while waiting at a bar, and a man said to his lady, “I look on life as a comedy which is my tragedy, you look on life as a tragedy which is your tragedy.” It sounded Wildean and profound, although I’m not sure it is profound at all. I'm still trying to sort out its meaning but it had fine ring to it.

Meanwhile there was a pleasant tweet from Allied London about the long derelict London Road Fire Station. This was posted on New Year’s Eve. It read '2017: Planning Permission obtained, a year of historic tours with @JonathSchofield and a special collaboration with @wallpapermag #WallpaperComposed - featuring a enchanting performance from @JescaHoop here's to an historic 2018 #HouseOfLondonRoad.'

​Truly, taking those tours around that venerable space incorporating the living memories of people who had lived and worked, there were some of my favourite moments of the past two years.
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