Psychogeographically Speaking

There is a side entrance to Manchester’s outrageously splendid, gothic-styled Town Hall. It leads to a little courtyard which is fully visible only from within the building. I saw it once, that secret, mysterious and inward-looking place, hidden behind the public splendour of one of the structure’s three facades. The granite setts of its floor are overlooked by heavily featured, stone oriel windows with tiny, leaded lights. The walls between them are decorated with coloured, glazed mosaics and there are small, curved balconies of ornate wrought iron on the upper floors from which the occupants may spy on those who enter below. Surely this is a part of the building which its architect reserved for the indulgence of his own fantasies – his dreams of mediaeval, eastern European buildings with ancient and sinister provenances.

One evening, as darkness fell, I found myself the only person walking on the quiet street which gives access to this courtyard. A solitary car approached and turned in front of me to enter it. I hoped that, as the gate opened, I might get another glimpse of the secret courtyard, just to get an unexpected psychogeographical fix – and to reassure myself that modernity was being held at bay, that double yellow lines had not been painted around it or automatic bollards installed at the entrance. I came close to the car as it waited for the gate to open and saw that it was being driven by a chauffeur, that the passenger, sitting alone in the back seat, was wearing a chain of office around his neck and that there was a coat of arms painted on the side of the car. He turned his head to look at me and I realised I had caught the Lord Mayor in an unguarded, off-duty moment – returning, perhaps, from a function at the end of his official working day. Afterwards, I felt I should have waved or saluted or somehow acknowledged a connection between citizen and elected representative, but he looked away too quickly, perhaps embarrassed by being caught in an intimate, vacant moment. The ornate iron gate swung open and the car slid into the dimly lit courtyard.

I couldn’t really see into the courtyard, but I was struck by the ordinariness of the car, a black Volvo family saloon of indeterminate age, which would have been at home in any suburban driveway.  It was completely outclassed by the magnificence, opulence and historical significance of its parking space, but I supposed that the choice of car was indicative of Manchester’s collective, egalitarian principles which proscribe any flagrant waste of citizens’ money or the undue elevation of an elected official beyond the reach of the ordinary Council Tax-payer.

I bumped into the Lord Mayor again a few weeks later. He didn’t recognise me and, to be honest, I only recognised him because he was at the next table and wearing the chain of office; and I had seen his car parked outside on my way in. This time the venue was distinctly 21^st century and the architecture not at all arcane. We were at the ultra-modern “statement” building that David Liebeskind designed for the Imperial War Museum North. It is very grand and striking, both outside and in. But it sits, as if deposited whole, in the centre of a desolate, windswept, tarmac car park - stranded on an island of self-importance.  It has no imposing portal or splendid, sweeping stone steps and gives no visual clue, apart from “signage”, as to where its entrance is, so there is no dignified or elegant way to enter or leave the building. Visitors park their cars outside its blank facade and scuttle around, looking for a way in. Parked thus, the black Volvo had nowhere to hide; no secret, discreet side entrance to slide into. It was just another family car (with a badge on the door) parked among a sea of others in an environment built especially for them. 

Museum Piece

Lack of planning is generally thought to be a bad thing and is the origin of sayings such as “They couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery”. I would argue, however, that there is a case for a degree of laxity in planning ahead and that minimal preparation can allow the opportunity for serendipity in one’s life, as well as removing the stress that can result from rigid timetabling.

My recent visit to the Manchester Museum may be a case in point. Admission is free of charge but, as I was about to pass through the open door, a security person ambled by, mug in hand on her way to chat with the shop staff. “We’re not open yet. Another 10 minutes”. She continued towards her rendezvous, leaving me with an unexpected moral dilemma: whether to walk into the museum anyway, or to play by the rules and loiter, needlessly, in the lobby. Now this was a situation which would never have arisen had I troubled myself with a little research into the opening hours, but it turned out to have its upside. I diverted into an adjoining room housing a temporary exhibit of Chinese artefacts and, apparently, not subject to the same opening times.

It was a small but diverse and interesting collection, from which I learned two things in particular. One was that the Chinese really did invent a lot of stuff thousands of years before Westerners had even thought of painting on cave walls. The other thing I learned was that they left nothing to chance (remarkable given their present day reputation as gamblers). One of the displays showed a whole set of model furniture for the deceased to take to the next world for use as a pattern to make real furniture for their new life there. In another display there was a ceramic plaque covered in writing which was to act as a sort of passport to hand to the government officials who were expected to be waiting for them in the afterlife. Here in the West we have a saying – “nothing is certain in life but death and taxes” and we can rely on the onset of the former closing the account on the latter. For the unfortunate Chinese of antiquity, however, there was no escape from either. What must it be like to take your tax file with you when you go? It seems they left nothing to chance and were thus both masters and victims of their own forward planning.

On leaving that room I was drawn to an old fashioned office off to the side. Seen through the panes of glass in the oak-framed partition, its furnishings appeared fusty, as if from another age - perhaps 1930- and the haphazard collection of peculiar objects inside was irresistibly intriguing. The brass doorknob could not be turned so I concluded that it must not yet be open. The sign over the door proclaimed this to be the ‘Bureau of the Centre for the Study of Surrealism’ and I longed to gain entry. As it turned out though, this fascinating corner of the museum was an exhibit in itself – a piece of installation art by Mark Dion – observable only through the window panes.

I finally did get into the main museum, only to discover another consequence of my failure to plan ahead. It was the half-term holiday, and conscientious parents from all around had brought their noisy, over-excited children to be entertained and/or educated. Since this was not conducive to my relaxed morning exploring antiquities I headed for the exit, stopping only at the beetle and bug department to note the jewel-like qualities of the pinned out specimens, and to ponder why they don’t look creepy at all when they are immobilised. Only later did I reflect upon the unexpected, small but entertaining pleasures gained from having had no methodical plan for the visit to the museum.

A Jazz Standard

Ladybarn, a suburb of Manchester, is a classic example of Victorian urban planning situated five miles from the city centre and bang on the railway line built to ferry people to and from work. “So what?” you may say; but, for me, the place brings memories of a personal crisis I experienced when I used to live there back in the early 80’s. It wasn’t an acute crisis, but important nevertheless to my personal development. At or around that time my musical palate was beginning to dull. The thrill of rock guitar solos was wearing thin, my attempts to dance convincingly to reggae were looking desperate and even ‘the blues’ could only hold my attention for about 10 minutes at a time. I began to seek alternative stimulation and excitement in classical concerts, but found myself distracted by watching the musicians instead of listening to the performance. I went to the opera but found that I was similarly distracted and, in any case, just could not do that ‘suspension of disbelief’ thing.

And so it was that I decided to try jazz. This had much to do with ease of access to Ladybarn’s main attraction, The White Swan, a.k.a. The Mucky Duck, a pub which hosted jazz sessions in the club room upstairs every Friday night. There, for a modest, single-figure entrance fee (and with even more modest numbers in attendance), I was initiated into the world of the mainstream jazz quartet. The style and repertoire that night and subsequently was not adventurous, but it was the skills and sensitivities of the musicians that impressed and set me off on an exploration of the myriad forms of jazz, liberating me, at last, from the tyranny of the music ‘industry’ and providing me with an endless seam of musical pleasures.

Friends of mine still live in that same part of town. They have seen the local cinema close, the shops turn into food take-aways, the estate agents scramble to squeeze every last penny of profit from each square foot of property and, now, the pubs starting to be boarded-up. But The White Swan is fighting back with its secret weapon. Not good beer, not smart new furnishings or a welcoming, jovial atmosphere; not a well-priced food menu of classics-with-a-modern-twist, but with jazz! The same jazz that wasn’t popular before. The same jazz that had to be hidden, upstairs in the club room, lest anyone should hear it. I went to meet my friends there last Friday evening. “We must help them out!” they pleaded. The entrance fee was even less than it had been in 1982 - and it included a raffle ticket. The prize was a bottle of wine and, for a while, it looked as if I had a 100% chance of winning it. Then the other bloke turned up. My friends then arrived, further diluting my chances. Not only had I become lonely by then, but had recklessly ignored their advice not to buy the draught beer, so they took pity and bought me something potable.

We really enjoyed the music. The standard of playing was high and the individual skills of the musicians well-balanced. They played many of the comforting, familiar old standards and introduced them with one or two of the familiar old jokes. (Pedants of punctuation are particularly fond of Cole Porter’s song being introduced thus: What is this thing called, love?).

There is no denying, however, that ambience suffers when the audience is thin so, musing on how numbers might be boosted, we came up with a few marketing suggestions.

For the lads in the band: 1) Remember that audiences deserve respect too, so do try to dress for the occasion. 2) Remember that audiences like to have a good time, so do try to look as though you enjoy performing.

And for the leader: 1) Communication with your audience is about more than playing your instrument well, so do try to make eye contact while mumbling at them in between numbers. 2) Learn some new jokes.

And for the publican: 1) Secrecy is rarely an effective marketing tool. 2) Neither is watery ale.

When all these suggestions have been considered and acted upon, I hope and expect there will be a revival in fortunes for both the local pub and its worthy bands of jazz musicians.

Liverpool 1, Sport 0.

Until recent years sport had passed me by. I had no interest in it. Ergo it was not interesting. After a few years living in Manchester, a close friend did me the service of pointing out that I was isolating myself socially; his theory being that, if you live around here, you need to connect, somehow, with sport - preferably football - for the purpose of creating a balanced portfolio of friendships. And so I tried.

I persuaded another close friend to take me along to a proper football match. Unfortunately I embarrassed both of us by applauding a nice move by the visiting team and was not invited again. I tried once more, paying a small fortune to sit in a state of the art stadium. The rainwater cas­caded off the carefully designed roof onto my seat which, despite its proximity to the pitch, offered a poor view of the players. The so-called banter seemed to me, no more than naked vituperation, and the pervading ambience one of hatred and barely controlled aggression towards the visiting team. Although not a sportsman myself, I had been taught the concept of ‘sporting’ behaviour, and felt strongly that all those who indulged, players and spectators, should be jolly good fellows practising decent, character building pursuits. I left at half time.

But it’s not just Manchester where sport matters. The other night I returned to the art gallery I had recently visited in Liverpool to collect a prize - not for art, but for the raffle. I had bought a ticket on that previous occasion and had won a magnificent, bound volume of my friend’s work along with an individual, signed print for framing. There was a modest presentation ceremony. You have probably guessed that I was in a tricky situation here. First I had to overcome the suspi­cion that I had fixed it with my friend. Then there was the issue of being not just an outsider but from Manchester. As I carefully picked my way through a gracious acceptance speech, I felt obliged to apologise for having won the raffle, though I knew deep down that this was unfair, since we had all had a sporting chance.

Later, in the pub, the conversation grew convivial until the need to catch that all-too-early last train cut things short. Even in my haste, I managed not to forget my prize, and said a friendly farewell.  On the train I chose to sit next to a middle aged man with two cans of cider and a free newspaper on the table in front of him. Across the table sat a demure looking young woman, con­stantly absorbed in texting, her huge handbag claiming the seat next to her. Nobody spoke. Half a dozen young men carrying a dozen bottles of beer then piled into the nearby wheelchair space and, pretty soon, started to sing. Cue conversation. The man next to me had perked up and seemed to be identifying with the choir. Even the young woman looked over her shoulder at them and turned back to us with an amused smile.

“What are they singing?” I asked, unable to make sense of what sounded like “garymakker, garry, garrymakker” to the tune of “Alouette, jolie Alouette”. The man next to me had just been to the same football match as the singers and could barely believe his luck. He was a Liverpool FC fan and here he was - sitting next to an innocent who was quite obviously in need of educating regard­ing his club, their one-nil victory that evening, their heritage of glorious player-heroes and the repertoire of hymns to their prowess (of which this was but one). Even the young woman wrenched herself from her screen long enough to cast a glance of pity and scorn at me. It turned out that she, too, had been to the match.

We got into a friendly discussion on the origins of fan-dom. He wondered where I was from and how it was possible for me not be a supporter of some team or other. I proposed the theory that team allegiances were tribal, an idea which he seemed not to comprehend. For a while this line was explored intellectually until a train official arrived requiring the singers to calm down. Whilst this mildly fractious exchange was taking place, my neighbour began to side with the aggrieved singers. He said he could see no reason at all why anyone on the train should object to their tedi­ous, repetitive, cacophonous singing.

I could feel that luck was turning against me now. Tribal behaviour was beginning to break out, I was in hostile territory and my best hope would be a nifty exit.

Fortunately, the train began to slow for my station just as my neighbour was getting into full voice with the choir. There was just time enough to shake hands and part company under the pretence that it had all been good natured banter.

Attempt on Bury No. 2

They say that if you enjoyed your first visit to a place, you should not go back again (unless you are prepared to be disappointed). The purpose of my second trip to Bury should, therefore, be self explanatory.

Top of my list was the the famous market which, this time, was fully open for business. I deliberately sought out the traditional fare, buying black pudding and a tub of beef dripping. Although I could not get enthused about the cow heal and tripe, I am quite desperate to like black pudding, being really keen on the Spanish version of it, morcilla. Despite several attempts, however, I must conclude that the Bury equivalent comes a distant second. As for the beef dripping, I remember my grandmother eating it spread on bread and sprinkled with salt, so I gave it a go. Gran must have been pretty desperate for sustenance back then! The tub is now pushed to the back of the fridge until my determination to give it a second chance finally wanes, and I use it instead to lubricate door hinges. The rest of the market experience washed over me - a sea of pies, leather goods, smelly pet accessories, cargo pants and assorted household goods. I still don’t get markets.

Next up, the municipal art gallery, and I was impressed to see a tourist coach parked outside, the last of its passengers making their way up the grand, stone steps. I was delighted to find that the party comprised ‘Friends’ of Manchester’s Whitworth Gallery, and included actual friends of mine. So it was that I came to tag onto a guided tour, and learned more than I otherwise would have done. For example, my assumption that the main benefactor of the gallery must have been a cotton magnate was shattered. The fact is that Bury had been an international centre of excellence for the manufacture of paper, and that a certain Mr. Wrigley made so much money from this business that he was able to gentrify his social standing by buying paintings, which he eventually bequeathed to the town. In fact, there is a rather nice Turner on display which Mr Wrigley had acquired from Mr. Gillet, a neighbouring manufacturer of pen nibs, thereby perpetuating the legendary relationship between pen and paper.

The coach party was moving on to Oldham, the next stop on their tour of Lancashire mill town art galleries, so my friends were unable to join me in refreshments at the large, old pub across the road which had earlier caught my attention. They missed a bit of a treat, for the young musician in residence proved to be a talented and expert interpreter of old classics by Roy Orbison, the brothers Everley and Walker and many others. The late-lunching, smartly turned-out audience must have been regulars, for they were apparently unfazed by the lone, wizened old character, meticulously dressed in the American Confederate Army uniform, who hovered enthusiastically at the front of the stage, and played air guitar through Sultans of Swing, his Tesco shopping bag at his feet. As my second pint of Bombardier drew to its dregs, the magic of nostalgia began to swell inside me, and I felt dangerously inclined to tap my feet or sing along. But I too, was on my own, with a plastic shopping bag at my feet and, moreover, in unfamiliar territory. The musician promised that his dad was about to turn up and do a few numbers, but I am not used to having so much fun on a Wednesday afternoon, and decided it was time to move on.

I am planning my own coach party for Attempt on Bury No. 3 for. You don’t have to be a southerner to be included, but you might find that it adds piquancy to the experience if you are.

Misery Mall

If you had to guess where to find the UK’ s largest man-made dome (after St. Paul’s Cathedral), you probably wouldn’t bother to look in Dumplington, Greater Manchester. And how about the world’s largest chandelier? Yep. Dumplington again. But, if you want to see them for yourself, don’t bother to try to find the place. Ask instead for ‘The Trafford Centre’, where both these wonders are incorporated into a huge, eponymous out-of-town shopping mall which has dominated the area since 1998.  Dumplington, a hamlet first recorded in 1225, has been elbowed aside by the massed ranks of our national retail outlets, its lowly brand dumped in favour of one which has more worldwide recognition.

I went there to gawp when it first opened for business, and I returned recently to make sure that I really wasn’t missing out on a wonderful shopping experience, but I suppose that depends on what your parameters are. Certainly, the place is impressive in its lavish ornamentation. It is full of statues, murals, columns, marble staircases and gold leafed adornments, yet it felt to me that I was the only one taking notice of them. The people I observed were resolutely focused on shop windows that could have been lined up in a giant tin shed. Maybe they were regular visitors who had become blasé about the grandeur of the place. Maybe the grandeur seeps into their consciousness, working its magic in subtle ways, elevating the spirit and loosening the purse strings.

Anyway, it was coffee time, and there were so many establishments to choose from that Carluccio’s were advertising reduced prices. Refreshed by a very good, reasonably priced cappuccino, I walked methodically through the mall, trying to maintain an open mind and some of the curiosity which had sent me there in the first place. About fifteen minutes later my resolution began to wane, and I started to fantasise about being back in the city centre. I passed a grandmother, mother and daughter, all sitting together on a bench outside Thornton’s. They were staring into space while they ate their way through a box of chocolates. It was 10.30 in the morning. I needed to split.

The bus dropped me back into the city centre, and I walked the long way round, through all the back streets. Here are the second hand book stalls, the ‘adult’ shop, the army surplus store, the vinyl shops and all the scuzzy characters that inhabit and frequent them. The Big Issue sellers never seemed so welcoming, and the buzz of city life never so intense. The shiny, expensive mall, with its army of minders could never be home to all this. I felt cheerful again, stimulated by an environment which has an edge, and encouraged by the diversity and energy of human endeavour. Like I said, it depends on what your parameters are.