FOUR weeks or so ago it was all about my regular Norwegian friends.

This is a group organised by Norsk Tipping, the state controlled pools and gambling organisation for Norway.

The usual number turned up – around 35-40.

The groups come twice a year in spring and autumn. They are made up of officials from Norsk Tipping and the Norwegian FA, and the punters themselves, good customers of the gambling agency being rewarded with a trip to English Premier League games. There are usually a couple of media representatives there.

The group were staying in Liverpool Marriott, which is just behind St George’s Hall, and they were a decent group right from the beginning; the usual mix of good humour, politeness and lots of drink.

Ah drink and the Northern Europeans and of course I include the British in this.

On one occasion a couple of years ago we had a world drink record holder – or something like that. This was a man in his late fifties from a village way beyond the Arctic Circle who got so drunk he lost himself.

Really lost himself.

I think he was some sort of farmer. Maybe a beer farmer, given that seemed to be his specialisation. He'd certainly never been to cities as large as Manchester and Liverpool before, so was probably a little over-whelmed and a bit too keen to enjoy himself.

He’d been drunk on the flight over and that started at five am. He’d been drunk through the first day and at lunch and all through the first evening. When he was really drunk he’d sing, “I love you baby...” in English, but forget all the other words. There was no prelude or sequel lines of, ‘Can’t take my eyes off you’, ‘You’re too good to be true,’ and so on.

Our friend always wore a multi-coloured woollen hat that looked like Dr Seuss’ ‘Cat in the Hat’ headgear. Every time he saw me, he’d bellow, in a swaying, exaggeratedly drunk manner, as though he were over-acting a stage part, “Good morning,  Mr Jonathan, how are you?” He'd say this even though it were 10pm.

Then he’d wave whatever bottle of lager he was carrying and chime, “I love you baby...”

During a game between Bolton and Blackburn on a freezing second day of a visit deep into November (Blackburn won the match by the way 2-0 including a ridiculous own goal from Bolton), our man lost himself. 

He was last seen trying to buy more beer in one of the concourse bars at the Reebok Stadium.

Then he disappeared.

When he didn’t get back on the coach we waited. 

And waited.

I even asked at the police station close to the ground whether they’d happened upon a 6ft 4" heavy-set Viking who couldn’t speak much English and was probably the worse for wear, probably singing, and was wearing a Dr Seuss’ ‘Cat in the Hat’ headgear.

They hadn’t. Eventually we had to make our way back to the hotel in Liverpool, with the organisers frantically calling our lost boy's phone. 

The following day I found out what had happened to our roving Nordic.

Apparently the Norsk Tipping people had kept on calling and had got more and more worried.

Eventually some hope.

The man’s mobile phone was answered. But not by him.

“Hello,” said the organisers in their excellent if accented English. “Is there a Norwegian man with you?”

“Not sure where he’s from, but his phones been ringing,” said an English voice on the other end of the phone.

There were pub sounds in the background, chatter heightened by alcohol, the clink of glasses.

“Can we speak to him please?” asked Kjetil, the Norsk Tipping representative

Pause.

Longer pause.

“Not really. I think he’s dead,” said the voice at the end of the phone.

Uproar with the Norwegians. 

“Oh my God, what happened?” they exclaimed. 

Pause.

“I’m only joking,” said the man with a laugh in his voice now, no doubt pleased that his deadpan Mancunian humour had been properly misinterpreted. 

“He’s not dead, just dead drunk. Unconscious. Pissed. Sleeping it off.”

Turns out our guest had walked out of Bolton’s Reebok Stadium, found a taxi and asked the taxi to take him to ‘the city’ and ‘a pub’. Eventually he’d wound up at the Old Monkey boozer in Chinatown in Manchester – not in Liverpool where he was staying.

After more beer he’d crashed out on a bench seat. 

That's not the end of the story.

What happened after the Norwegians located their missing group member was in some ways remarkable given the late hour and the state of inebriation the whole pub appeared to be in.

The Norsk Tipping representatives persuaded the man who’d answered the phone to get some mates and carry ‘Cat in the Hat’ into a taxi and then persuade the driver to take this drunk and unconscious man to Liverpool. 

Apparently the driver wasn’t mad about the idea of a 35 mile journey with no guarantee the man would wake up, but was persuaded when the Norwegians talked to him on the phone and promised him a hefty bonus when he arrived at the Liverpool Hilton.

The man and his friends from the pub then disappeared back into the Old Monkey having performed their charitable deed for that Saturday evening and for many more to come. That was the last the Norwegians heard from them. The 'He's dead' man probably still tells the story to this day.

The Norwegians are capable of generosity as well.

And when they have spare tickets they allow my son Oliver – the maverick Manchester City fan – to attend matches.

On one occasion – aged 14 - he came across from Manchester alone with two friends, Danny and Dominic, to watch the Liverpool v City match (2-2 - I think). They had to get the train and make their way to Anfield Stadium and after the tour make their way back.

Again people were helpful the whole way, whatever team they supported, and made sure the lads got back to Lime Street Station and then back to Manchester without incident. The boys loved their little bold step for independence in an over-cosseted Western world for kids.

On the most recent visit in February this year, Oliver got a spare ticket to come along to the Manchester City v Chelsea match. City won 2-0.

Final thing.

As stated above, the Norwegians were again staying in Liverpool city centre next to Gentings casino at the Liverpool Marriott. Gentings must be the world’s worst casino, the one that doesn’t understand the principles of their profitability. 

Around twelve of the Norwegians went gambling there night. Seven won substantial sums of money. One guy won £1,000.

Bill Evans (Norwegian despite the British name), the main Oslo-based tour operator, walked in one night sat at the roulette table and put money on red. He immediately won £600. 

He got up and walked straight out the door.

“Would sir, like to try again?” a croupier desperately called after him. 

“No, sir is going to have a nice meal, now, really enjoy the night. Thank you.” said Bill. 

THERE were about 85 students from Lancaster University, split into two groups. 

One tour at 10.30am, second tour at 12.30pm. 

The picture shows the first group above stretching into the distance as we walked along Spring Gardens.

They were studying a 'Geographies of Political Economy' module, particularly with reference to post-industrial change.

Manchester seems the incubator for such studies. Its history of retrenchment and reinvention draws in academics from around the world. 

On these tours we looked at the redevelopment and changes around the canals, Spinningfields, the area around Oxford Road Station, Chinatown and the Village and in the central areas. 

We discussed how Manchester is an exception to other ex-industrial major UK cities in the way the demographics have worked out.

Most of the wealthier residents of Greater Manchester live just over the administrative borders of the City of Manchester. This means that the city itself has, since the eighties, had a largely Labour voting, and poorer, population profile.

Thus for nigh thirty years Manchester has been effectively a one party state. This is bad for democracy in that it makes people shrug their shoulders and say, 'Why bother voting if it's always going to be the same lot in power'. As a result Manchester has shameful voter turnouts.

But the situation enables the best officers in the council, both political and civil service, to plan long term and deliver on ideas for major projects such as concert halls, arenas, conference facilities, transport, even major events and festivals such as the Commonwealth Games and Manchester International Festival. 

Not that the students were simply concerned about economics and politics, they also wanted to know where to go out and where to eat. So I told them. Life can't be all study. Music and food makes the economy tick as well. 

ANTJE Zimmermann was late. Her flight from Cologne was delayed on take-off by snow. So as I waited at Abode Hotel, I ate an astonishingly good fish and chips provided by chef Bryn Evans at the MC Bar and Grill (click here). 

Antje arrived smiling and apologetic.

She went to her room to get rid of her stuff before we went on the tour. Shortly after she re-appeared, flustered. 

"I need air," she said. "The rooms are like a sauna, and the window cannot open. Germans need fresh air."

We all do of course.

But there was a German aspect to this.

There is a cult of fresh air and bodily and mental health over the Rhine. The end point of this is the German passion for naturism with nudist areas as standard in many German parks. It's impossible to imagine such areas in UK parks. Heaton Park Nudist Meadow simply sounds disturbing.

This part of German character is underwritten by a philosophy  from the late nineteenth and twentieth century of 'lebensreform' that promoted a back to nature lifestyle and as well as naturism, recommended health foods, sexual liberation and alternative medicines. 

It is still very much at the heart of liberal German thought, and Antje was simply articulating 'lebensreform' when she desired fresh air.

Fortunately the hotel was very obliging and found Antje a room with windows that opened. There was talk of having to get the handyman out to unscrew one of the old sashes. The Abode Hotel is big, bold and Baroque, a former Horrocks and Crewdson warehouse from 1899 by Manchester architect Charles Heathcote.

This means it's a Grade II listed building and there are rules about keeping original features such as sash windows which can be difficult to maintain. 

At least Abode could find rooms with windows that open, many controlled environment hotels in the UK have windows that don't. Do all the hotels, including tall modern ones, in Germany have windows that open? 

The tour included an interview between Antje and me in The Royal Exchange. On the tour she particularly adored Affleck’s with its four floors of crazy boutiques, collectables, furniture, fancy dress. She nobbled one of the stall holders for an interview.

We finished off in the Radisson Edwardian Hotel where she asked more questions about Manchester and its politics and traditions and drank a glass of wine. She felt Manchester had a similar liberal air as Cologne, her home town. She showed me pictures of a theatre group she's part of, that during Cologne’s carnival put furry animal masks on and perform dances. 

The woman is a traveller almost without parallel in my experience. For her radio programme  - and I think I heard this right - she is away from home during at least part of three weeks out of every four. Wow. No wonder she needs hotel rooms to be right. 

Sat behind her in the bar was Ryan Giggs, 39, and still going strong in the Manchester United first team. Antje didn’t like football and so had no idea who one of the most famous footballers on the planet with a face known to millions was. 

This was refreshing given football's global over exposure.

It was also probably refreshing for Mr G who for once didn’t have some footy fanatic sticking a camera phone in his face and asking for an autograph while he was simply enjoying a quiet drink with his missus. 

LOUIE said, “There are 300 or so of us in the Manchester Cottonopolis group. We call these activities ‘jaunts’ and they are usually well attended.”

Louie was referring to the Steam Punks he’d led into Manchester city centre for a tour. Steam Punks are people who dress in Victorian and Edwardian costume and sport gadgets that one described as ‘retro-futuristic’ – in other words tools and weapons writers in the steam age may have imagined we might have had in 2013.

Think HG Wells meets Sherlock Holmes chats to Ray Bradbury and settles down for a chinwag with Ridley Scott.

The Steam Punks carry their hobby and passion off with gentle manners, smiles, kindness and a magnified sense of eccentricity.

I particularly admired one little group.

This was formed by a superbly attired pair of a lady and her cross-dressing fella, and the sweet mother of the former who had come along for the ride, but wasn’t a Steam Punk. The mother looked like she was dressed for a walk round a stately home with a nice cuppa after and maybe a cheeky piece of cake.  She didn’t bat an eyelid at all the unconventionality in full flower about her. Fabulous.

Away from collecting pith helmets and bustles the individual members of 'Cottonopolis' seem to have standard day jobs, one civil engineering lady was very knowledgeable and provided some good insights when we arrived at the tour’s destination.

The Steam Punks had split into two groups, made up collectively of around fifty people. The first group was called Muff and the second, Zeppelin.

“I feel Dr Freud would have fun with those names,” I said to one of the organisers, Kirsty.

“I had to choose muff,” she laughed. “I just love muffs.” To prove this she showed me hers. It was a very handsome muff. 

Her hands were sure to keep warm.

I never got to the bottom of the reason for the name Zeppelin. I quite like that, it somehow preserves the mystery.  

This was the timetable as written by Kirsty:

12.00 - start to congregate at Manchester Town Hall Sculpture Hall cafe
12.45 - Meet Tunnel-Master Jonathan Schofield at Town Hall
13.00 - Group Muff descends into the stygian depths armed with sturdy shoes and torches.
14.45 - Group Zeppelin assembles at the embarkation point
15.00 - Group Zeppelin descends to pursue the angry Shoggoths and to rescue Group Muff's fallen comrades

Brilliant.

Our destination was the Great Northern Tunnel. 

The Steam Punks and the tunnel were made for each other.

The tunnel was built in Victoria’s reign as a canal and then abandoned, until given a brief life once more as bomb shelters in WWII. It provided a perfect backdrop to brocaded dresses, bodices, leather straps, breeches and top hats.

The layer of mud before Slippery Stairs in The Rubble Passage on the way to The Great Chamber proved a challenge for some of the ladies with longer dresses but everyone managed.

During the ‘weird-thing-we-do-down-there’ activity the groups were massively exuberant. No holding back with Steam Punks. 

"I'm making an infra-red night vision set of goggles with torches attached on each side," said one woman casually, as though mentioning she had to pick up a pint of milk on the way home.

Of course on our promenade through town to the tunnel entrance we’d attracted lots of stares. Indeed we became a photo opp, a walking tourist attraction: the Irish parades round town on this St Patrick’s Day weekend didn’t have a chance.

“When we meet for the annual conference in Lincoln with two thousand or more of us in attendance, police compliment  us,” said Louie. “They like us even though we may be carrying replica, antique weapons. The police have said that the crime rate goes down in Lincoln when we’re around.”

That’s probably because everyone stares at them.

And smiles.

The Steam Punks, using their offbeat fashion, strike a blow for individuality - and though they may make the some of us wonder whether we should be doing something similarly outré to prove we are here on this planet – no-one can help but like them.

“Where did you get your topi from?” I asked Louie, sometime during the tour.  

“My pith helmet?” he said. “Here in the Northern Quarter in Manchester, but you can easily pick them up on the internet.”

We walked on a few steps.

“They still manufacture them in Vietnam, you know?” he added.

I nodded, determined to find some excuse in the forthcoming weeks to inform someone that pith helmets are still manufactured in Vietnam.

(The latter reminds me of the strange tour I did a few years ago with a man who claimed to be a Vietnamese government minister. He had several attendants and minders with him and was travelling around in a minibus. The doubt over his status rose from the fact he was staying in a backpackers hostel. The fact he wanted to know where he could find a prostitute didn’t confirm or negate his alleged government role either way. But anyway that’s another story...)

“IDEAL Forgery,” shouted forty two 18-year-old Singaporean students at the top of their voices.

“Yeah,” screamed the boy behind the camera, five metres aways.

He’d asked me at the end of the tour whether I could ask the group if it would be ok for them to shout his band’s name at the camera. Then he could shove a video of the moment around social media. 

I asked them. They complied. With heart felt gusto.

The teenagers and their tutors had just got off an eighteen hour series of flights but were in high spirits. 

Law and management students. we did a brief tour of the Town Hall – they wanted to learn about how the city is governed - and then walked to Exchange Square because, after I'd left them, they wanted to learn about Manchester’s shops and boost the local economy.

They were polite, giddy, filled with a desire to photograph everything they saw and hugely excited about the weather that Monday. This was playfully providing ten minutes of blizzard followed by twenty minutes of gloriously blue skies. It alternated this way for about six hours.

Most of the Singaporeans had never seen snow before and yelled and squealed with delight. They made their first ever snowballs. It was charming.

“In Singapore it’s more than thirty degrees every day with very high humidity,” said one student about his tropical homeland. He wasn’t talking minus thirty either.

As they gathered for a photograph next to an Easter promotion in Exchange Square I asked the ones at the front, why so many young people from the Far East raise the two fingered peace salute during every photograph.

“Because it’s nice to wish people peace,” said one girl.

I resisted exclaiming, “But on every photograph!” because she was right. It is nice wish people peace, to hope for peace. It might well be a cliché, it might well seem strained, and just too much, to satirical Brits, but it’s a warm-hearted harmless gesture nevertheless. Innocent.

At the close of the tour, one of the groups of friends showed me a photograph on their phones of a mobile phone shop in Manchester where they wanted to buy a charger pack.

I said goodbye to the rest of the students and took the small group to the shop in St Ann’s Square they wanted. 

On the way they asked me what I did aside from guiding, if anything. I told them I was a writer, and when  they learned I did food reviews alongside other articles, one girl, gave another squeal.

“That is my dream job,” she said and insisted that I told her how I’d become one a food writer. She also insisted we had a picture taken together.

“This picture, might help me achieve my dream,” she said, as though I were some miracle-working religious icon.

Good luck with that I thought, wondering why I’d never insisted on having a picture taken next a Manchester statue of Sir Robert Peel, or John Bright, or Richard Cobden, or any of those ridiculously energetic past greats.