Kitted out with 20kg of luggage, first a tram then a train before midnight allowed Manchester International Airport to be reached. After an evening and afternoon sleep from 1600-2300, I felt refreshed and raring to go. I pottered around with my Greggs breakfasts and waited to fly.
Even as the alloted 0300hr check-in desk opening came, I still had energy to burn. My bags would rejoin me at Brussels Airport, having flew with Brussels Airlines. The world’s longest lines at passport control and the outbound gate were troublesome. The sign reading “last call” for boarding came and went. Without doubt, being second to last on the Hainan Airlines flight was nerve-wracking and not one to recommend Trip.com’s self transfer routes! I had to plead to move up the queue many times. I begged. I pleaded. I reached a wall of negative responses but managed to get there. I hate queue-jumping but I had to force the movement. Needs must!
Mickey 17, Gladiator II, and a few episodes of David Attenborough’s Asia wildlife documentary sandwiched attempts at sleep. The former of the two movies comes highly recommended for reasons of originality within the sci-fi genre. Also, fine acting from numerous characters and a fair dollop of wit gave the movie a largely good rating in my eyes. I rested as much as possible.
Landing at Shenzhen around 0500hrs on the Saturday after departing Manchester at 0600hrs on the Friday remained a good move. The timezone difference of 7 hours, a delayed departure from Manchester, and all the stress of Brussels lifted. I had made it: much thanks to family and friends for helping me to get there. Better late than never. One small step for reunification, one giant leap for family-kind.
Liam Gallagher uttered a typed racial slur on Twitter/X. The late great wrestler Terry “Hulk Hogan” Bollea wasn’t shy of controversy. Meat Loaf was anti-vaccination. Never before has it been clearer that heroes are just like you and I: flawed.
“Yeah, and he’s not even a very good one… But he’s out there alone, and he’s probably scared” – lead character of Superman (2025) about the dog Krypto
Heroes are hard to find. That is, of course, the reality. For every Lance Armstrong cheating the system, there are an army of unsung volunteers, health professionals, RNLI boat crews and support staff, and countless other examples of putting others ahead of themselves. Those who deliver aid to Palestine, operate health clinics in Ukraine, or pluck refugees from the deadly English Channel go above and beyond their calling. And not all heroes wear capes: see also, Mam.
“Any sort of bullying is a terrible thing, but I think online bullying is so much worse because it’s psychological bullying” – Dean Cain, actor
And that leads me neatly to the recent fictional superhero, the one of my many childhood dreams, and many play sessions: Superman. The recent movie of the same name has earned plaudits and created a strange debate. Labelled as ‘woke’ by, the lycra-wearing superhero was the creation of children of immigrants that headed to U.S.A. Joe Shuster (artist) and Jerry Siegel (writer) would have been all too aware of the atrocities facing their fellow Jewish people. Their empathy shone through one of fiction’s greatest assets. The latest movie incarnation left me spellbound. I left the cinema with a smile, for the first time in many years. It was a joyous love letter of a movie, by James Gunn and his production team. Absolutely full of geeky details and hope.
“Knock the ‘t’ off the ‘can’t'” – George Reeves, actor
Being from elsewhere and existing in an unfamiliar landscape was my choice when I moved to China in 2014. Unlike many who seek better places to live and survive, I had the choice. That choice took me back to Britain, a new Britain, less Great, more lost. One that had departed the European Union and seemed to be having (and still is) more internal battles than a U.S. civil war. Religion, race, nationality, and gender fill newspaper covers daily. Social media, seemingly unchecked, spouts mistrust, counter-science, and conspiracy theory. The consequences lead to a broken Britain.
“A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.”- Christopher Reeve, actor and activist
If being woke is to champion the smaller person, to puff your chest out at bullies, and to want a better world, then count me in on Team Superman. #SupermanIsAnImmigrant (coined in 2013 by Define America and the Harry Potter Alliance) who now deny that ideal are an example of flip-flopping u-turns that former Prime Minister Liz “Lettuce” Truss would be proud of. Much alike the latest version of Lex Luthor, excellently portrayed by Nicholas Hoult, there lies a smudge of grey amongst the confused right wing views. Those contradictions make us human. Much like the David Corenswet version of Superman. Where Christopher Reeve made generations believe a man could fly, David Corenswet has restored belief in hope once again.
“Once you choose hope, anything’s possible.” – Christopher Reeve
Sadly, every hero stands to fall on their sword, so choose your heroes wisely. I chose my Mam as my hero for good reason (and her supply of fig biscuits).
Manchester rain made a welcome return on Saturday morning. The sky cried for my departure. The greyness of overhead lines, concrete, and new high rise towers did not clash with the constant matt grey of the leaking vast sky. Blue skies and sunshine had greeted Manchester for months on end. The summer school holidays had now arrived.
Getting to Manchester International Airport’s Terminal 2 early required a 05:25am wake up, an early bus, and the 07:18 train. Kitted with a 20kg rucksack and a lighter 8kg daysack, I ran through my head the things that I may or may have not forgotten. Despite attentive planning and packing, a snag of doubt sat firmly on my shoulder.
Juneyao Airlines, complete with cluttered and near unworkable website for check-in, would be my carrier. Other airlines are available. However, on arrival, my world fell apart. Blood emptied my face my legs became jelly, and the shock of being told my visa had expired hit me like a freight train. It was not a good day.
On the train back to Manchester, I shook in rage qnd worry. I trembled. I vomited. I went to the toilet in other ways. I was empty. Panic battled with sensibility. I struggled home in a zombie-like trance. I entered the house, dropped my rucksack and backpack, and crumpled up into a bawling sack of self-hate, anger, and shame.
On telling the family, I set about rebooting myself and explored resurrection for summer plans. I immediately logged onto Chinese Visa Application Service Centre Manchester’s website and lodged my visa application. A trip to the library was necessary to gain scanned electronic copies of every passport page. And everything seemed to upload.
Sunday:
A day in the garden digging up vineweed and Himalayan-barbed-wire-bramble, with plenty of worrying and questioning of myself. A few video calls and some Bosch Legacy on the telebox. A day of limbo sandwiched by buying some Lego Duplo at a charity shop in Failsworth and an evening of cheese, sauerkraut, and bacon Polish dumplings. That all followed noticing my visa application as not being present. However, it would not allow me to apply due to a previous application. I wondered if it would go well.
Monday:
08:00 – Visa application appear online at Manchester Chinese Visa Centre website.
10:00 – query visa at Manchester Chinese Visa Centre. Visa application received.
11:46 – email request for further information.
12:00 – further information sent.
Pottering around town. Waiting. Limbo.
15:08 – application approved. Email to print with code and hand passport in. I legged it from the book and coffee shop.
15:24 – printed documents at Manchester Central library.
15:27 – arrive to Manchester China Visa Centre. Attempt to hand off passport and documents. Man at desk, “I’m sorry we don’t accept applications after 15:00.” I said, “It says 10:00 – 16:00.” He replies, “That’s wrong. We open again for application drop offs at 09:00 tomorrow.” Thanked man at desk.
I’ll be back. The quest goes on. 🐝
Wednesday:
Using the mandatory bonus free day, I headed to Warrington and met Little Big Sis’ Astrid for noodles and a movie. A good switch off from recent tension.
Tuesday:
08:35 – arrival at Chinese Visa Application Service Centre, Manchester. 5th in the queue.
09:00 – Service commences.
Thursday:
08:40 collection queue, position 2.
09:05 visa in hand, all grand.
Go to bed early (16:00/17:00), wake around 22:00/23:00.
Friday’s plan:
Depart for Manchester International Airport around midnight.
03:00 – Check in.
06:00 board flight to Brussels, Belgium. Sing a Vincent Kompany song and wobble my backside like Jeremy Doku skipping past defenders. Look out for former City player Émile Mpenza.
11:40 – board flight to China, in Brussels.
Let’s be fair, I’m not so sure U.K. leisure or family visit visas are as fast.
Read my eyes. Read them carefully. I heard you. I really got your gist. I’m not talking. My words are silent. I am trying to think. And block out your sounds.
I heard every little thing. I am not deaf. Why are you so unkind? Don’t you see me? Look at my face. Read the expression. A plethora of scribbled emotions. Keep out of my path.
Think I’m deaf, do you? Look at me. Look closer. See my body raging. See that deep upset. I won’t speak. I don’t want to erupt. I am close.
I have plenty to say. I hold back. You push me and push me. And some more. Keep on pushing and pushing. Pushing the hate. Nothing positive to say? Thought not.
Can’t you shut up? Think of better words. Don’t I have feelings? You hurt me. You really have made me sad. Unbelieveably angry. I count. Don’t I?
Didn’t drive there; took the train. Cleaner. Fare was fair; a voyage to fresh air. Dreamer. Book in hand; sat in the land. Concealer. Hull Pot is known; Hunt’s Pot unshown. Revealer.
From within the cracked crevice; a crag distant. Dramatic. Layers of limestone; collapsed downward. Fantastic. Roots draped low; light reflecting glow. Unsystematic. Flowers tumble outwards; water plummets loudly. Automatic.
Spikes protruding seats; stream into ground eats. Entice. Stacked clumsy ledges; tufted lonely shrubs. Imprecise. Solid without flow; frozen is the mass. Shelf ice. Emerald filled cauldron; grasses swaying lightly. Paradise.
There are cries of “keep politics out of music” by the same crowd who backed Live Aid in 1985 and its sequel in 2005. As those treated by nurses and doctors who have fled conflicts demand an NHS service at top performance. And Liam Gallagher, tweeting the untweetable on hate platform, X. What a weird time to exist.
“You can’t trust politicians. It doesn’t matter who makes a political speech. It’s all lies – and it applies to any rock star who wants to make a political speech as well.” – Bob Geldof
Bob Vylan by name, by character one who gets flack for drawing attention to a military force that kills kids and women indiscriminately. The cowardly IDF should go toe to toe with Hamas and stop the murder of the innocence. As for Hamas, they’re all nasty and need to give their head a wobble. Should we be getting worked up over Bob Vylan, Kneecap, et al? No. The sooner this war ends, the better, bur let’s be fair, this was a conflict of Britain’s creation, one that is bitter and historical, and no end appears in sight. The more bombing, the more it will drag through the next century. Hate breeds hate. Not a musician.
“Populism is dangerous.” – enjamin Netanyahu
Yet the media focuses on Ipswich duo Bob Vylan and Bobbie Vylan. The Bobs may have said their message in the wrong way and I’m sure they wouldn’t wish death on the I.D.F.’s individual members but as for an entire organisation, perhaps the downfall and end of the I.D.F. was their message. Backed by Massive Attack, Fontaines D.C., Irish soft-pop group Kneecap, Inhaler, and CMAT, it could be said that Bob Vylan were just doing what Jarvis Cocker has been doing for years: getting people talking. Anyone who thinks a musician was preaching to glamorous camping fans to uproot and take aim at the attack-minded Israel Defense Force is stupid. Surely?
“…slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their systems were unprepared.” H.G. Wells. War of the Worlds.
And war, what exactly is it good for? Edwin Starr said, “absolutely nothing”, and I agree wholeheartedly. It divides, it displaces, it distresses, it decimates cultures and people and humanity. It leaves gaping gaps, chasms of pain, and heartbreaking weaknesses. It is exploited and manipulated to the needs of the powers, dictatorship-like leaderships, and turns neighbours on each other. So, should we all stay silent about the United Nations-labelled genocide of Gaza and Palestine? Should we cheer as U.S. and Israel jets pass into Iranian skies and decorate the ground with a blanket of fireballs?
“Any story hits you harder if the person delivering it doesn’t sound like some news robot but in fact sounds like a real person having the reactions a real person would.” – journalist, Ira Glass
Every war and conflict displaces people. And where do they go? To the first people that welcome them. Be that Norway, Sweden, or the U.K., desperate people seek safety and sanctuary, even if their religion or ideals conflict with their place of refuge. And then, most people adapt, they blend in, and they thrive under conditions of opportunity. Or not. I recently was lucky enough to meet a Kurdish nurse who works for the N.H.S. in Greater Manchester. I felt privileged to be treated by her, a doctor, and a multinational team of workers there to improve the lives and health of many. My infected bites, like racism and xenophobia, an irritation that life does not need.
As I sit on the train, I am once again reminded of the lyrics, “in this world where we lice, there should be more happiness”. Spot on. Silence the bullets and bombs, let voices of love speak clearer and with more weight than a tweet or misguided message on stage. The time for talking is always. The time for action over inaction is always. So, what now? Are we as a species of humanity to be slain by the small-minded delivery methods of stage and social media?
“The first step to achieve something is to believe.” – Diogo Jota 4/12/1996-3/7/2025 [footballer (Liverpool, Portugal, Paços de Ferreira, Gondomar)]
Are there many novels that celebrate and champion persistence? Do all cops in novels ignore authority and tackle the weight of bureaucracy through ignorance? Early reviews pointed me to a challenge.
Inspector Imanishi Investigates by Seichō Matsumoto is a post-World War II novel originally penned in 1989. The lead protagonist, unsurprisingly, is Inspector Imanishi. He is a world apart from the rebellious bulldozing Harry Bosch found in Michael Connelly’s novel series. Instead, Imanishi is methodical, modest, and clinically human in his approach. He persists without need of a lightbulb moment or an act of genius. At every turn Inspector Imanishi displays empathy. He listens. He feels the victims’ lives. He endures whilst remaining ethical and responsible. The fog of guilt lurks. Grief and shame wallow. The good Inspector appears to put himself in others’ shoes.
What happens when guilt becomes unbearable? Drawing on a contrast of a post-war reshaping metropolitan Tokyo and that of rural provincial Japan, this book uses geography, culture, and traditional etiquette to deliver the truth. Themes of memory and recollection, urban alienation, interconnectedness, societal and historical tensions. The slow movement of justice’s machine underlines the need for structure and hierarchy but appears to comment on a lack of urgency. What secrets live between city lights and village shadows? Can you bury a crime in a country still healing?
How well can you really hide from who you were? The plot features new names, misdirection, reinvented pasts to escape guilt, shame, and consequences shows disguise as social-cultural adaptation. In an ambiguous world, the detective is a constant: deeply moral. Rarely does a slow-burn of a book stand out, yet from the opening chapter to the conclusion, I was hooked. The jigsaw was essentially a lesson in the importance of detail. Like a cold-poured Guinness, “Good things come to those who…. wait.” The novel’s ending seemed more reflective than triumphant yet left me wanting more. Was reluctant justice enough? Does empathy make the best detective?
Matsumoto’s Inspector Imanishi Investigates is a novel celebrating persistence and realism. It is the antidote to flashy books filled with spectacle and glamour. The notes of fading traditional values give hints at a nation’s people suffering an identity crisis – or at least instability causing a social flux. I found myself pondering, how much of our world’s remembered reality was misremembered? Can patience solve what brilliance cannot? Is closure enough when lives have already been lost?
Today is the eve of Shaun Goater Day, but it is also a celebration of something equally important. Whilst the title may appear like a click bait piece for a major newspaper publication, this is a message of hope and love. Happy Birthday to my Mam. The best of the best, and the only one to spend a day in 1982 forcing me out into the world like a long skriking jobby.
Go relax, enjoy, and spend quality time in York. Hux is with you eternally. Revisit memories with warmth, eat copious amounts of cake, wander the pathways, and drop into the churches and walled parts that both capture hearts and offer solace. In your absence, think about the strawberries as a large snail attacks them. Leave a birthday offering of chocolate biscuits before you exit the house.
This has been a tough bloody year but you have been tougher. Find youth in your power and potential to deal with anything. Find hope in knowing your grandchild shall arrive here one day soon, no matter what. Find joy in the tenderness of the luck to share fantastic experiences with someone you love. Forget the garden that needs gardening. Remember to buy fig biscuits for a birthday treat to share.
I’m sure that I speak on behalf of Astrid and Paul Jr., in saying that you are loved by us all, and it is unconditional. Happy birthday. Love from us all. Peace and love. 🐝
Rest in Peace Shez. I will miss that green and blue North Face jacket and the natters at EDS, away, or whereever summat City could be found. I’ll miss the simple shake of hand and greeting. Had to laugh when you took Chermine to the U18s game on Valentine’s Day. Of course you would! There are but a pocket of Blues who travel as far and as wide as Shez – and less so that take in the U18s, U21s, EDS, and Women’s games so frequently. A real die hard Blue. And one that was never too far from pushing his daughter into City the right way. Alisha and Shez at footy together was normal. If you didn’t see one or the other, then City weren’t playing. Massive condolences to Jordan and Alisha!
When awful news comes through and you know that a piece of the City community, the Manchester football landscape, and an all round good person has departed life, it leaves absence and hollowness. I have been bumping into you for years – never a close friend, but always someone welcoming, polite, and a laugh. Always positive and often sleepy. A bubbly character – even after early morning post rounds and minimal sleep! That being said I have seen you napping at City Football Academy watching the EDS, or U18s, or women’s team. Thanks for the brews shared, the supportive words, and the encouragement to bring my family to the U.K.
Shez represents what being a City fan is all about. The football is great a times but it is minor to the culture – and the politics, drama and celebrations or commiserations. Forget titles, parades and trophies, or allegations and ticket prices for now. Celebrate real fans. Build a statue or mural or expand the memorial gardens. City’s community matters more. Stand closer to those mates and family on the terraces. It doesn’t matter if we face Barcelona or Bristol City, your mates are the ones that deserve then praise. When an empty seat comes and you know who was there, you’ll feel the loss. We all do. People matter. Fans like Shez matter.
If the legacy you leave behind is countless Blues praising your character and spirit, then you did something right. I am gutted for your loved ones and your family. I offer my condolences and best wishes to all. Good night, God bless. Treasure life.🩵
Manchester Victoria train station has a huge map on tiles. It’s part of the historic Lancashire and Yorkshire Railways station. Before split ticket applications. Before multiple rail network and ticket prices. Simpler times. A glorious end point, or a beginning, or an interchange. My Dad worked here many times. He fell off a ladder there too. Dad’s memory hasn’t been right since! Today, Friday, May 30th, a train departed at 07:21 to Leeds. Panda and I boarded it.
Hull Pot is surprisingly close to Horton in Ribblesdale village. A reasonable sub-hour wander up a gradual incline lined with stone makes for a decent ascent. The only difficult aspect was to turn left after around 5 minutes of leaving the B6479 (Pennine Way road) onto the Pennine Way footpath, just after Horton Beck, heading away from Brackenbottom. Head straight forward and ignore any left or right turns. Hull Pot is toward the hamlet of Foxup. Horton in Ribblesdale station has a small cafe and ample amounts of lodgings for walkers. We needed neither so trod onward and upward.
Hull Pot(91m/300′ long) is neither ceramic nor cannabis or belly. It is a quaint chasm (18m/60′ wide), opening into a gully (18m/60′ deep) of water and greenery, with thunderous cascading water pouring down a steep face of bare rock. The incredible flow of a visibly disappearing river thumped downward into a gap of glistening rock. Not the sort of place to dangle your legs unaided, yet certainly a place to watch every step. The next one may be your last. Watching Panda on a shortened lead warned me of how simple one step beyond could become fateful. Just a trip over the lead; And then a step to the right; Put your hands on your hips; and pray you don’t fall. No more Time Warp references. Sorry Richard O’Brien.
After the great view, heading as the crow flies towards the visible pathway up Pen-y-Ghent takes you away from Hull Pot‘s waterfall vista. Pen-y-Ghent, devoid of trees, shows the passage of time, weathered and individually steeply rising from a patchworked green landscape. Like Hull Pot, there are collapsed limestone features, just of rock, and streams like the one that submerges at Hull Pot only to re-emerge at Brants Gill Head. Sheep, and lambs during lambing season, are everywhere. They’re either looking for selfies or confused by Panda the border collie not trying to round them up. Today’s climb involved clouds and battering winds at the higher points, only to part for sunshine and calmness as I set off downward again. The view at the summit being somewhat shrouded by rolling clouds.
On the path downward, and barely yards from many passing feet sits another hole (Hunt Pot) in the ground. Again a waterfall slips into the broken gash of earth and a huge volume of water disappears from the ground above. Hunt Pot (60m/197′ deep) is a spot more than worthy of a good sit down, rest, and respite. Butties of radish and prawns, katsu coleslaw, and an avocado alongside a gallon of Vimto did the trick. I tucked into Ben Macintyre’s A Foreign Field, devouring a few pages as Panda rolled around in the grass. Photographs were taken of the hole and its waterfall, at which point, I decided the Ribblehead viaduct (detectable from the peak of Pen-y-Ghent) was now the walk’s targeted end point. That and the Ribblehead station, a few yards away.
Following the footpath, near parallel to the discernible flow of the River Ribble, Panda and I passed through farm fields, traversed High Birkwith, the wild flow of Coppy Gill, Brow Gill Beck, and the charming Cam Beck. Emerging onto Inman Lodge Road (B6479), turning right, the bends of Gauber Road reach Low Sleights Road (B6255) and The Station Inn (1879), at Ribblehead Viaduct. A brew, coconut cake, and a sit down were necessary. I’ve always found this area magical. It has an aura. It always calls me back. The oystercatchers, fossils, viaduct, green, and solace. My fortress of solace.
Batty Moss sits beneath the 24 spans of the Ribblehead viaduct. Modern diesel trains roll over this site and have done since the 2nd of August 1875. The picturesque bridge itself was constructed over half a decade. Over a 100 souls perished during its construction and remains of navvy camps can be found in close proximity. Thankfully smallpox, navvy brawls, and the perils of producing a 400m (440 yards) bridge are less of an issue for a rambler in 2025. The 32 metre-height (104′) may cause the odd person to stumble in awe, on a ground covered in natural potholes and squishy mosses. This sensation is often exasperated by steam locomotives crawling over the vast span of bricks and stone. After a wander seeking fossils within the bridge’s gigantic bricks, Panda and I wandered up to the old station at Ribblehead and hopped aboard a train to Leeds. Manchester Victoria was to be our final stop before home and bed. Feet up. Lovely day.
The 15 miles (24km) of walking can be found here (featuring: 2,464 ft/751m up & 2,231 ft/680m down).
Empty seats, Emptihad, plastic fans, not real supporters, glory seekers, 115 charges, and a plethora of yawn-inducing taunts later. Where were you when you were shit? Even Wrexham A.F.C. fans will get this with their outside investment…
Many fans say oil club this, oil club that. But, it seems to me that these City owners are the progressive people who are putting their money into other things and getting away from oil dependency. Yes, it is still there, but electric cars in Abu Dhabi are less reliant on black gold from the ground. The provision into alternative uses of land through social housing, football, community aspects, and so called washing of wealth is a controversial one. Are Lloyds Bank, Barclays, or the British government less contentious in their investment habits?
Would East Manchester be improved without the Abu Dhabi commitments? Would new parks in Ancoats and the preservation of derelict hospital and mill fronts be a reality? Thay once stagnant area is a mesh of community, life, and people. Yes, it isn’t fully accessible to everyone but where in Great Britain can you find an affordable home or alternative to homelessness and food banks? That’s a condition at a far higher level than overseas interests. One that England and its neighbours have been flogging beyond the shores for near eternity. Why enable your own people onto a property ladder? Cash in quick.
I am all for human rights. Completely for safety and security of innocent people. What’s worse: a country that executes the absolute bad eggs of society? Or, one that turns off the ability for its elderly to heat themselves in harshest winter? That same latter country drops bombs indirectly through third party holders and battlers. They also provide that weaponry to states that deliberately target civilians. I’m not saying executions are right, not at all, but surely when people exchange cultures and mix and match, they see a clearer picture of where works and what can be realised. Opportunity to change. To improve. The City Football Academy is the utopia of football development. What about Manchester being the bridge of internationalist progressive thinking?
I have never understood why so many people sat at keyboards look at short little numbers and comment on a few hundred empty seats (that likely have sold out). Is there attention groundbreaking? If tens, hundreds, or thousands choose not to turn up, is it worth a song or dance? Are they saying that Manchester City has no right to ambition, growth, and to sit at the top table with Glory, Glory Man United, Liverpool, or Arsenal? Should City look up at their consistently consistent pack of red cartel and stop trying to be better? All that effort to comment on seats. Have they not got anything better to do?
In my mind there is no shame in empty seats every now and then. In fact, the more the merrier. It needs to be seen. Empty seats means that the gaffers at the top made mistakes in pricing and accessibility for a fan base. They became detached and they instilled conditions that do not allow a working class game to connect with an increasingly instable pool of absolute diehards. “The game’s gone “, is one thing I’ve heard time and time again throughout this last decade. And that’s when we’ve won!
Empty seats shows the club, Manchester City, or whoever has lost touch with who we are. And, yes, supporters on their loyalty schemes, from all over planet Earth, may film those gaps. Will they be there when the proverbial turd hits the big skinny blades of a less-shiny fan? I’ll look after my sphere of influence, my mates, my family, my friends, the community of our Official Supporters Club, and whoever matters. That community has built up around us, our City, with us, for us, for City and our seats will be full when they’re full, or empty when unfortunately people get ill, stuff happens beyond their control, and so on. Life happens. You can’t bow down and let football dictate where you should be every day or week. Televised games, competition kick off times, and other factors have put that regularity to bed. It isn’t for the match goer. Losing touch with supporters and televised fixtures can be fixed. It can change. Let’s hope so.
Things happen beyond your control and if others want to sing and chant about how empty the Etihad is, or how akin to a library it can be, knock yourselves out. Good for them. Enjoy it. Right now, with two games to go, after a quiet standing area experience at Wembley, I’m reflecting and positive that good times will return. Football comes in cycles and runs, and staying at a top level, for so long, has been freakish.
The first team to win 4 Premier League titles four times in a row. A record. And like all numbers and statistics, things pass, and clubs have to rest and reset. As a City fan since birth, I feel no shame in losing to a much more hungry Crystal Palace squad. Luck has to be on your side at times but desire and graft get you over the line. I hope Palace fans, players, and the neutrals enjoy the trophy win. Those who rest on their laurels seek no opportunities. So, what now?
Looking down on fans for not attending games is snobbish. Not everyone in Manchester has access to disposable income. And, even when buying tickets it has consequence. How many meal tables are sacrificed for a Champions League night out with the family? Shame on all the pundits and papers for continuing to single out City fans for having the odd lower than capacity appearance. How often do they ignore the reduced allocation of an away club and draw attention to a segment of up in the rafter seats left unoccupied? The constant reference to City’s council house ground, in reference to City’s occupation of the former Commonwealth Games 2002 stadium was pitiful, and should be treated in the same vein as anyone referring to Liverpool fans as bin dippers or Scousers as favouring giros for supporting their living. Football banter and jibes are cruel at times. Until the changes of attitudes, empty seats on tour.
The sight of the Duddon estuary around Foxfield has always tugged on my heartstrings. The rounded railway line hugs the coast and estuary like a wide horseshoe. It runs from Barrow-on-Furness to Millom and up the Cumbrian coastline. The Isle of Man lies out to sea, smothered in thick black clouds. A slight hue of pink gives a clue that sunset is somewhere towards Scotland. A crack of brilliant orange erupts along the northern horizon.
Geese honk and ducks quack as winds carry across the broad flat marshland. Occasionally trees jut out defiantly refusing to be swept away by countless vicious tides. Heather blooms in vivid yellow contrasting the slate skies of spring. Pockets of sky blue shine down on the isolated station of Green Road. A salty fragrance fills the air.
“I saw your message down the line It gave me hope, it gave us time So little Time” – Doves, Strange Weather
There’s an eerie ambience to the region. As shadow on the western reaches of the Lake District. An area with less eyes upon it. The nuclear power plant at Seascale, just over twenty miles away, ensures Millom beach sees fewer visitors than other Cumbrian towns. Twenty six miles separate Whitehaven from Millom, yet little sign of tourism peers beyond the low coastal town. Hodbarrow Point lighthouse and an RSPB birding reserve gather a few feet on their travels. The remains of a windmill and a older lighthouse lurking over the headland. Remnants of another time.
Looking inland, hills dominant and mighty roll towards the many Lake District mountains. Black Combe lurks over the sleepy village of Silecroft. An algae-covered abandoned caravan shares a view back from the infrequently-visited station below. Swinside Stone Circle sits neglected to the east. Further north is Bootle. On a clear day, views from Black Combe are said to include England, Scotland, Wales, and Eire. Not bad.
RAF Millom Aviation & Military Museum parted ways with its collection and now houses His Majesty’s Prison Haverigg. Think Butlins and you’re on the right track. The jewel in the region is Ravenglass for Eskdale. Muncaster Castle and Ravenglass and Eskdale railway are delightful glimpses into the western Cumbrian life. They’re an escape from modernity into past worlds. Owls and narrow gauge steam trains. A Roman bathhouse is also worth a wander.
Wainwright’s walks may lay inland but every turn south of Seascale to Millom has something to offer. At Seascale there is also Greycroft stone circle. Less busy than the famous Stonehenge and more compact for photographers. Drigg’s dunes from Carl Crag to Kokoarrah Scar, its packhorse bridge, and clues to the WWII Royal Ordnance Factory can be found. Just ignore the Nuclear Decommissioning Authoritylow-level radioactive waste repository. Wasted land, indeed.
Only recently did a wander up Greenfield, near Oldham, across to the Trinnacles fill me with a warmth that is familiar. The need to share such views with loved ones is growing stronger each day. Whether at Dovestones reservoir or trudging along Cumbrian coastline, there is a hunger to live better and enjoy nature more freely. Seeing Dan, Van, Alex, and Damo made me hungry to spend time with good friends and family, as often as possible.
There’s a direct line from Brinnington to Hope. A world of differences between Ashburys and Marple. Too few similarities between Reddish North and New Mills Central. Yet the line from Manchester to Sheffield offers gems and escape. Friday the 25th of April 2025 led a path between Piccalilli train station and the quaint village of Edale.
Upstream to Grindslow Knoll, required a short wander through the village of Edale, passing the beginning of the Pennine Way. The Rambler Inn, The Nag’s Head, and Newfold Farm Cafe give a feel of what the tiny village of 400 centres around. An old and active primary school, set amongst the varied farm houses, country cottages, and Edale Parish Church show that life here isn’t all wandering. A path diverts from a truncated road over Grinds Brook. The protected stream will accompany mist walkers until Grindslow Knoll.
The paths start gentle with some undulating, before rocks, boulders, and scree start to appear intermittently. Heathers and moorland flora decorate either side of the funnelled valley. Eventually the bulk of Grinds Brook splinters into two sharp rises. Banking left involves a scramble, some choice pathway making skills, and a substantial incline. The views are increasingly dramatic. At the top, looking toward Mam Tor and Edale, much of the distance appears green and sprawling.
Following an old slabbed walkway, the journey takes explorers to a rock formation known as the Woolpacks. Peat bogs, heather, and alien-looking rocks litter, cluster, and emerge along the Kinder plateau. They mark the final wander to the peak of Kinder Scout and are a highlight for many walkers. Mermaid’s Pool, Charged Rock, and countless unnamed landmarks are worthy of an exploration.
The descent from Grindslow Knoll’s shady rear allows for farmland wanders along wide open pathways and a gentle jaunt on the home straight. Edale awaits. Edale sounds like a cake. The delicious Penny Pot Cafe banana and date oat flapjack was the only cake I had that day. Succulent. Alongside a cappuccino it made for a great reward. Before boarding the 1647 train, Panda found many a crumb landed in his fur. He promptly removed them before flopping back, head on the floor, for a nap.
Once more into the breach we stepped. Mam and I popped to Salford. This time the mercy of the Gods waited. You know the Greek Gods. In Salford. Paul and Mam had introduced me to Not Too Tame before, and I had a hunger for more. Gods of Salford presented that opportunity.
Through the talented helm of Not Too Tame theatre, the audience plunged into a building site, engaged in some friendly participation, before being whipped into a frenzy. The usual midweek night in The Lowry this was not! Jimmy Fairhurst’s directions gave working-class heart and strength to a blend of modernity coupled with mythology. Cultural references slammed together with moetal defiance and resilience.
In a make-believe-believable world, overlords looked to determine the fate of a young cast of underlings. Much like modern life. Olympians, of the ancient kind, may have seemed up against it. Streetwise sense and a touch of “fuck off”-ery gave rise to a battle against all odds. This was theatre, with a hint or ten, of reality. Anthony Quinlan starred as Zeus, Laura Harrison and her incredible voice as Hera, and Jimmy Fairhurst as Hermes. Arguably, the stars of the show were the wide and broad troupe of young actors and actresses. Created and written by Not Too Tame,Jimmy Fairhurst, Andrew Butler & Louise Haggerty, featured a stunning set, seamless scene changes, a snappy soundtrack, and giggles galore. The aim of Not Too Tame is to make sure all audiences know “theatre IS for them.” True inclusiveness.
In 2025, The Lowry celebrated 25 years of presence at Manchester Port, renamed Salford Quays. Under the shadow of BBC and ITV studios, L.S. Lowry’s artwork equally sits by future potential and tried and tested acts. Opportunity’s hand glows on stage and Gods of Salford was no exceptional. Featuring a catchy soundtrack, poignant moments, and sharp dialogue, each moment flew by leaving the audience wanting more. After just 65 minutes, it was all over. So, what’s the next Not Too Tame production? Hurry up! Until then, other theatres and other groups will have to do.
“Remember, remember my name…” lyrics from a song featured in the show, God of Salford.
Never once heard a left-wing leaning leftie say the Union Flag is offensive to anyone. Heard a few republicans call for the abolition of the monarchy and the U.K. flag, and a few Welsh ask for an update to include Yr Draig Goch in it. Honestly, every time I see a post about the U.K.’s Union Flag causing offense to Muslims, and it usually is Muslims, it annoys me. Social media posts, of this hateful kind, being shared look to divide people. Nobody is offended by that U.K. flag. Proud of the flag? Less and less, yes. It represents the majority, born here or drawn here. Perhaps, minorities would display it with pride if the U.K. was a little more friendly.
So, where’s it all coming from? Decades of stretching the haves from the have nots? Year upon years of a widening gap between salaries and costs of living? Or, perhaps tge rich get richer and the poor get poorer? That old cliche. In 32 years since 1990, the top 1% of the U.K. billionaires have seen their wealth grow tenfold. That collective wealth is almost exclusively out of circulation and likely adding to their ability to pull in more pennies. In 2024, according to Oxfam, U.K. billionaires gained £35 million a day. Is that £182 billion a year fair? 70% of the population barely equates the top 1% of the U.K.
Mind the gap. Income inequality may remain constant but the wealth of the richest and poorest is a chasm. Inherited wealth over generations may help the rich keep their titles and banks healthy. The poorest leave behind little and in many cases can’t even add gravestones. Disproportionate tax policies supporting the well-to-do through low taxation of dividends and capital gains benefit the wealthy. Inner city kids have no chance. Should we accept our place? Fodder for Lord Amazon and Co.?
Is there truth in Russia pushing immigration towards the U.K.? Well, many Ukrainians have sought sanctuary in Britain. Wars in Syria, Palestine, Yemen, and unrest across other global regions will always add a demand to find safer shores. Gangs exploiting trafficking for profit and increased ability to find weaknesses in U.K. laws following Britain’s exit from the European Union have certainly raised numbers.
The Royal National Lifeboat Institution (R.N.L.I.) are lifesavers. Volunteers who respond to sea emergencies and pluck the needy from near-certain death. They even rescue sheep and goats from time to time. Life is precious. Their sole purpose: to save lives at sea. A combined crew of 9,800 and 2,000 or so support staff make that possible. Since the 4th of March 1824, the orange livery of search and rescue have been around British and Irish waters, doing their incredible humanitarian work. Never discriminating. I always thought that’s how the U.K. should be viewed: a place of sanctuary and love for life. Perhaps I was naive and should have laughed at the picture of the RNLI boat full of Muslim-looking men heading for the Dover cliffs?
Then again, my Mam has always taught me not to be a knobhead.
When they came for the asylum seekers, I remained quiet; I wasn’t an asylum seeker.
When they came for the transgenders, I stayed silent; I wasn’t transgender.
When they came for the Free Palestine supporters, I kept my mouth closed; I wasn’t a Free Palestine supporter.
When they came for the free press, I didn’t utter a word; I did not write for the free press.
When they came to add internet censorship, I felt conflicted and hid; I did not act against them.
When they came for the library bookshelves, I stood tall and defiant…
Inspired by German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) and his words below (English and German)
When the Nazis came for the communists, I kept quiet; I wasn’t a communist.
When they came for the trade unionists, I kept quiet; I wasn’t a trade unionist.
When they locked up the social democrats, I kept quiet; I wasn’t a social democrat.
When they locked up the Jews, I kept quiet; I wasn’t a Jew.
When they came for me, there was no one left to protest.
Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Kommunist.
Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.
Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.
Als sie die Juden einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Jude.
Als sie mich holten, gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.
Peak-Kevin De Bruyne may have passed and there remains just a few windows to see the Manchester City number 17 in action. This had been one hell of a decade.
The redheaded Belgian, reminiscent of Tin Tin, has put in shift after shift at the sky blue Etihad and all the places along the way. He has contributed and given it all in a footballing spell that has filled his home with medals and accolades. Trophies have swamped his time at City and without his contribution there would surely have been no Champions League finals in Portugal and Istanbul.
Whilst KDB may have appeared more serious in his finale season of 2024/25, his battling of injuries and frustration appears to have been brushed away. Now fans have started to see the master with the ball at his feet and one that is capable of magic, as witnessed against Crystal Palace. With a past stocked with dribbling, assisting, and sublime technique, it is no wonder the former VfL Wolfsburg man has played nearly 415 games for City. Scoring around a quarter as many goals!
At City, Kevin has contributed to six Premier League trophies, two (hopefully three) FA Cup trophies, five league cups, a brace of Community Shields and that all-important Champions League trophy. Whilst every Blue would have been gutted to see him injured in both Champions League Final appearances, all are thankful for his battling and composure on every journey through a decade at the Etihad Stadium club. Four Manchester City player of the season awards recognise the love of the fans of the Belgian playmaker.
The charitable and likeable De Bruyne has embraced City In The Community and other good causes, whilst keeping close to fans (where possible). His athleticism and range of passing has surely made him the best midfielder of the Premier League era. His assists and goals have squashed his then club record fee of £55 million (€75 million). At the time the media laughed and called him a Chelsea flop with little potential. That has haunted many a pundit – and rightfully so!
Alongside David Silva, James McAtee, Leroy Sane, or whichever striker he needed to feed, De Bruyne has earned every chant to the tune of Seven Nations Army (White Stripes). Wherever De Bruyne chooses to play next, City fans will watch with envious eyes. Whether we see KDB wear the 17 shirt at the FIFA Club World Cup remains to be seen. It would be a fitting departure to feature for Manchester City at the USA tournament, but who knows?! For now, let’s treasure the last days at City of an absolutely prodigious playmaker!
At City, we’ve been spoilt with a raft of neo-legendary stars, arguably transisting from Pablo Zabaleta and a raft of Mark Hughes signings through to the striking viking Erling Haaland. Before that cult figures like Uwe Rosler, Richard Dunne, and Shaun Goater gave us light for the 90s and early 2000s. Now, the City Football Academy is producing the likes of Phil Foden and Nico O’Reilly. So, what say, alongside Emile Heskey’s lads, a certain Kevin De Bruyne deposits his son to bolster “maybe in another generation.”
Life goes on. Where are you right now? Accompany me every day I accepted the parting, but underestimated the missing! It is destined to be an endless dampness!
B.P. are abandoning their green energy investments to “drill baby drill.” ™ ® What a time to be alive! Let’s reverse previously strenuous and tedious environmental efforts. Why can’t we be greener? Pupils at secondary school ask me, “Is war coming?” I play it down. However, are we sure it is not?
The very same human, Lord Vader Trump, has gaslit, manipulated, and slapped coercion on his viewed-as-inferior opposite number Zelensky. In much the same way as Andrew Tate’s Romanian victims may see things, Trump lent into the Ukrainian leader with, “You have allowed yourself to be in a very bad position.” Simple vocabulary, as expected. Flipping the abused with blame for being a victim of the abuser is an odd view. Imagine if the world had done the same when the U.S. of A. and then President George Bush Jr. shot after Osama Bin Laden and Al Qaeda.
The emphasis then fell to sidekick J.D. “Sports’ Vance, who once hated Trump and viewed the Trump tactics as too far. Instead, Vance pushed for a “thank you.” Al Murray’s Pub Landlord character was more fair about his masculine drinking views.
“flooding the zone with shit” – Steve Bannon, Guardian news
Trump and Vance essentially told the Ukraine to roll over, show its belly, and bend over for more action in its hinterland. It felt like a concede the loss and allow Russia to take over. Sure, let the bully take over and consolidate space and territory. Great idea! Good old American values. Saviour and leading light, Trump shouted repeatedly about Ukraine holding no cards to play. Of course, Ukraine’s European allies and greater global communities said otherwise. “Without us, you have nothing,” said an emboldened Trump, to which dozens of respected and elected leaders brandished two-fingers.
Peace and U.S. of A.’s staunchly Team America-view of global security have been hand in hand ever since U.S.A. entered global conflict as a victim of World War II, or even before. They responded to conflicts and cries of help. Even whilst allowing their own people to fire a selection of deadly metal devices at one another in the name of rights to bear arms. This from a nation supplying Academi [previously Blackwater] military suppliers. Blackwater Worldwide and Xe Services have had a troubled past blighted by controversy. They’re now Constellis Holdings and have had 28 years of U.S. paychecks that Trump and Co. are invested in by some shape of form. And pardoning.
Constellis may or may not be responsible for law enforcement training, logistics, close quarter training, and security services whilst being favoured over state contracts and entities. They may or may not be enjoy Trump saying, “If you get a ceasefire, you must accept it so that bullets stop flying and your people stop dying.” Especially as many billions of pounds was directed to U.S. companies and military supplies that have yet to reach Ukraine.
Trump wants to lead. He wants Zelensky and his country to be a subordinate and shouting over Zelensky to tell him, “You’re not in a position to dictate to us” is just plain old mean bullying. His and Vance’s pitch for a pathway to peace ignores Russia as an aggressor and turns Ukraine into a thorn in the back of resolution. Especially as he pins “…playing with the lives of millions of people” on the leader of those people.
Even if Ukraine was in a position to hold elections, would infrastructure and ceasefire allow such a thing? Or painttarget cross-hairs on lines of battle-capable adults? The Ukraine’s place in a partnership and resistance has been made to feel like the Ukraine owes the world and U.S.A. This is codswallop.
“Fail we may, sail we must.” – Andrew Weatherall, English musician, DJ, songwriter, producer and remixer.
The U.S. of A. feels indebted to the Ukraine conflict. Oddly, repatriation has faded from other conflicts without a whisper of debate. Yet, here the Bin Laden-chasing, War on Terror bunch of cowboys and chief demand that “you must obey, or you will recieve nothing“. International Rescue, this is not. “If it weren’t for our weapons, this war would have ended in two weeks”, walks over the dead, the resistance, and a wider international support. It says that Europe and the Ukraine are irrelevant.
The sphincter-twitching Trump administration is in full-blown propaganda mode and answerable to investor overlords. The U.S. appears to be a puppet state with evil James Bond-baddy Elon Musk or Vladimir Putin pulling some of, if not all, the strings. These are dangerous times.
And now Putin won’t be pulled in. Even if Trump is calling him, begging him, laughing with him. Meanwhile, the P.M. son of a toolmaker and the U.K. investments in war machines at an alarming rate. All at the expense of social conditions, the environment, and hope. Still, at least they spared the tax-dodging elite. Here in the U.K. we have our own brand of gaslighting, victim-blaming, and coercion into gratitude. We’ll force our own subjects into terms beneficial for the state and potentially fatal to Britain.
Welcome to the era of stupidity. Let the stupidest win. Resources are dwindling to the greedy. If war should come, are we ready? Enjoy your views whilst you can.
A trail of stones through the River Wye was the target. The locally famous Chee Dale stepping stones have long attracted walkers to the area. Chee Dale sounds like an incomplete name. Was it Cheese Dale? Is it Witch Edale? Perhaps it never was a Dale and was Cheadle? Either way, March’s final weekend involved a fair wander that Chee Dale gorge way into the Peak District.
Sitting roughly 7 miles from Buxton, the number 65 bus bridged that gap to Miller’s Dale (53.2552720, -1.7949950) and Wormhill Road. From here a sharp left, hugging the River Wye led on a craggy pathway with soggy bits toward Chee Gorge stepping stones and links to the Monsal Trail. There’s even abseiling at bridge 75. The gorges appear after a short but rough walk, with short up and down sections permeating the steep river embankment, often sandwiched alongside treacherous hillside banking.
Chee Dale is a green oasis of babbling Wye River brooks and tributaries. Rich with birdsong and imposing limestone cliff faces, lurking with peril overhead, yet surrounded by ash woodland and flowers of vital ecological importance. In the water beneath Dippers, Willow Warblers, and various waterfowl do the bird kingdom justice. Hopeful wildlife photographers hide under canvas and perch precariously for their captures.
External content: discretion advised. May contain footage of a terrifying bird.
Having headed on t’ line at Chee Tor Tunnel, the flat pathway led back toward Buxton. Chee Tor No.1 and its sequel No.2, and the spin off Rusher Cutting led to the end of the cycle trail, where an active line prevents further passing toward Buxton. Here it meant a short wander beyond Wyedale Car Park, turning right over a footbridge. The lack of curbside or space to stand as cars rushed passed was not for the faint-hearted! Keeping Panda, my dog, close by, we stop-started our walk until safe and beyond the rushing road.
The day culminated in 12.5 miles of wandering (20km). Plenty of sideways, backwards, and around-about routes eventually led on a pathway via a short stint on the A6 to Buxton. The wide valley leading uphill from the A6 to a farm overlooking the town appeared to be an old quarry route. Plenty of places to chuck a ball for Panda safely, after his early dips in the scenic River Wye.
A blend of former railway nostalgia, nature, heritage, and peace with a climax at the spa town of Buxton, complete with spring water tap, formed a good day out which was just a short train journey from Manchester. So, where next?
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 