What’s done is done. Don’t waste time waiting to be carried on. Get out and join the run. Find that cloud that moves away for sun.
What isn’t done isn’t a dream turned to reality. More is the pity. Witty as you are, zitty as you may be. Cheer on City, sing a ditty. Don’t feel life is shitty.
Live it. Seek it. Find it. Whatever it is. Get out more. See more. Do more. It is what it is. Time flies in a whizz.
Spend it. Spend it wisely. It can be scary and lary or live it fully and happily. Get up early, even on a Saturday.
It’s how you spend it. Like comedy? Choose wit. Like music? Find your hit. Get out of your pit. Grab your true grit.
Choose to live. This life. Now. Friends will come and go. Some live long, and some live slow. You will love some, and some may know.
Opening the cover beyond the title and an author’s name, ignoring the blurb in the rear, smelling the pages, and anticipating what lies within. The smell of books decomposing ever so slowly, losing their cellulose and lignin is known as bibliosmia. A book shed that information to me once. A bibliophile needs to know that. Some folk say books smell and attract us. It could be. I’d have to read about that to understand it.
The peaty, earthy, and slightly musty smell is neither a grotesque or pleasant smell. It is a familiar one. So, today, on my 41st birthday, I open Vince Flynn’s American Assassin. I’m unsure if I have seen the movie by the same name. It’s insignificant. All I know is that I want to read the book and feel the author’s words. My Aunty Christine rehomed this book with me. She recommended it. That was some time ago. Good things come to those who wait?
The nostalgia of feeling a book in your hand has made me ignore my Kobo e-reader, almost immediately after Mum gave it to me years ago. I’ve used it for reading literacy documents and nonfiction. That’s all. The bibliochor fragrance is all too tempting. Tiny dust mites, squashed spiders lost in the pages, and the odd note by a predecessor of a reader make books a fair journey into timelines and places beyond the text. Each book, even the crap ones, packs potential for a new world or inspiration to read more, write better, or seek new nostalgic texts.
Some books are unpardonable and need discarding. Some can not be put down. Some demand full attention, and some will sit silently awaiting the caress of a gentle reader. A few books will get battered and lay tattered. Many will touch hearts, and others may heal, or hug, or wrap amongst the DNA of the eyes upon the pages. Emotions and feelings from junior texts to deeper heavier lexile demands may equally challenge or relax a reader. The duality of opening a book and opening a door to a new story awaits.
Simon & Schuster, the publishers sits on the spine. The New York Times Bestseller awaits. So, prelude, page one… off we go… over to you, Vince Flynn. I’m ready to read.
Football doesn’t belong on the internet, in a box on television, or confined to those who can afford premium seats. It’s a game, and as the song Boys In Blue by City says, “football is the game that we all live for”. It’s a simple concept of kick bag of air into a goal, whilst stopping t’other side from doing similar.
22 folk play, split over two teams, with stacks of substitutes, and influence from men, or women waving cards, flags, or sitting in a box room issuing instructions like a sinister James Bond villain. Usually, it has worse outcomes than global domination.
Games attended in 2023/24:
One. 15/7/23, 3pm, West Didsbury & Chorlton 2-1 1874 Northwich F.C., Step Places Stadium, friendly game
Two. 16/8/23, 10pm, Manchester City 1-1 Sevilla, UEFA Super Cup, Man City win 5 – 4 on penalties, Georgios Karaiskakis Stadium
Three. 19/8/23, Manchester City 1-0 Newcastle Utd, Premier League, Etihad Stadium
Four. 23/8/23, 7.45pm, Avro FC 0-1 City of Liverpool, Vestacare Stadium, Pitching In
Five. 25/8/23, 7pm, City EDS 4-4 Aston Villa, Academy Stadium
Six. 26/8/23, 12pm, City U18s 6-0 Blackburn Rovers, City Football Academy, Premier League U18
Seven. 27/8/23, Sheffield Utd 1-2 Manchester City, Premier League, Bramhall Lane
Eight. 2/9/23, Manchester City 5-1 Fulham, Premier League, Etihad Stadium
Nine. 16/9/23, West Ham Utd 1-3 City, Premier League, Elizabeth Stadium
Ten. 22/9/23, 7pm, City EDS 1-2 Chelsea, Premier League 2, Academy Stadium
Eleven. 23/9/23, Manchester City 2-0 Nottingham Forest, Premier League, Etihad Stadium
Twelve. 30/9/23, 3pm, Wolverhampton Wanderers 2-1 Manchester City, Premier League, Molineux
Thirteen. 8/10/23, Arsenal 1-0 City, Premier League, Emirates Stadium
Fourteen. 15/10/23, 3pm, City Women 5-0 Bristol City, Joie Stadium, FA Women’s Super League
Fifteen. 21/10/23, 3pm, Manchester City 2-1 Brighton, Premier League, Etihad Stadium
Sixteen. 25/10/23, 2pm, BSC Young Boys 0-4 Manchester City, UEFA Youth League, Stockhorn Arena
Seventeen. 25/10/23, 9pm, BSC Young Boys 1-3 Manchester City, Champions League, Wankdorf Stadium
Eighteen. TBC.
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Over time, I’m hoping to add previous seasons, starting with the historic 2022/23 season. We’ll see.
Bern, baby Bern. What a glorious city with the river Aare horseshoe-shaped around the glorious Altstadt. The capital of Bern is as green as it is old-carved rocks. Sweeping views from the Bundehaus parliament buildings look out onto the distant Swiss Alps. Autumn leaves fall and mingle with stray butterflies, whilst the odd buzz of a bee makes a passerby question the seasons.
Starting with a walk from Newton Heath to Manchester at an ungodly hour, a steady train to Manchester Airport led to a wander to terminal three. Here, Ryanair had more priority boarding passengers than regular folk. A swift 7am flight to Cologne and Bonn Airport preceded a quick train to Köln, long before lunchtime. After an expansive and expensive salad, the train to Basel SBB station in Switzerland was equally hurried. The most part of the journey on flat land with the Rhein river close by and the foothills of the Black Forest gateaux mountains to the east.
Arriving at Bern for teatime meant a long day. Checking into the cosy Hostel 77, it would have been rude not to wander around the darkened old town in the evening. Spying a light show on the Bundeshaus parliament frontage and Manchester City’s travelling coaches were pleasant experiences but the haunting bells of
Outside of wanders around the UNESCO heritage medieval covered shops and fountains along the streets, a trip out of town by train to Thun was on the cards. The 101/100 zone tourist ticket covered two zones. A further 28 Swiss Francs covered the 6 zones of the journey. Within 30 minutes, it was possible to visit Thun and see the castle, many great Alpine mountain peaks, and the Eiger (from a distance). As a child seeing George Lazenby star as spy-womaniser James Bond, 007, the scenes from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service looked breathtaking. From a distance, I could imagine scenes from Ian Fleming’s text and varied Bond movies.
On my pocket, Anthony Horowitz’s With A Mind To Kill, didn’t get any reading time. The views from Thun and the exhibition of Manchester City’s under-19 team in the UEFA Youth League playing at the Stockhorn Arena was enough entertainment. The 10,000-seater stadium was about 8% full. Maybe 9%. I’m sure a statistician would question my maths. The four goals for City were as majestic as the surrounding views, and the Stockhornbahn AG-sponsored stadium was atmospheric. The young crowd enthusiastically cheering on both City and the hosts BSC Young Boys.
As Mike Summerbee and Nedum Onuoha, amongst others, watched on, the view of the Eiger and surrounds featured rainbows (perhaps Switzerland has pots of gold), clouds and glorious sunshine. The stadium is named after a cable car company named after a mountain and Fussballclub Thun 1898, who operate the stadium and put on a good show. Free entrance. Much needed.
The trip was, of course, to see Manchester City grace the hallowed AstroTurf of BSC Young Boys at the Wankdorf Stadium. The game was a bash. Manager Pep Guardiola shuffled his hand on the ground built over a Co-Op supermarket and a plethora of shops. The blue and whites made to work hard for their win left with three Champions League points and probably a few AstroTurf grazes. I don’t miss those days!
The joy of the light show at the Bundeshaus, a wander (or two) in Köln, a quick walk to the Wasserturm in Mannheim, and all the bits in between lasted from Tuesday to Thursday. So much to do. So much to see. So little time. Treasure life. Peace and love.
Franny Lee was to many Blues, something to everyone. It’s hard to grow up in a City household or one of football and not know the greats of each club. Usually, it’s the big clubs. Often, the clubs who are making the most impact at the time. The name Franny Lee will be known to many Citizens.
As part of the treble trinity that was Bell, Lee and Summerbee, those who watched City from ’67 to ’74 will know of Lee. Those who followed City from 1994 will know Lee experienced an ill-fated spell as Chairman. His heart was there. City and the off-field conditions were not. Those who knew of the Maine Road to City of Manchester Stadium transition will know that Lee was involved behind the scenes. In fact, Lee sold his final shares in 2007 to Thaksin Shinawatra. Without Franny appointing Alan Ball, City may never have had fan favourites and legends in Georgi Kinkladze and Paul Dickov. Relegation and promotions may have happened differentl. Who knows.
The Forwards With Franny and We Want Franny badges have their place in time. What can never be argued against is that the former Bolton Wanderers player Francis Lee fell in love with City. Lee One Pen, as he was known for his penalty taking (and gaining) would have been a Video Assistant Referee nightmare had the game have had such technology then. Following retirement and games at Derby County (where he won the league), the ex-England forward went into business selling toilet rolls and other things.
Franny Lee cut an imposing figure on the field, and I can see why my Dad and Grandad rewatched VHS highlights and instilled my passion I to City’s history. At one time, growing up, history was all we had, but through players like Franny Lee, I could connect to glory long before 2011 arrived and City’s purchase power of Brasso became legendary once again.
I didn’t see him play, but I did say hello, get the odd signed bit, here and there. I listened to interviews on television as I grew into following City at an early age. Manchester City’s characters like Lee, and moments like the Ricky Hatton-style punch up with Norman Hunter, or those photos from the league win in Newcastle, will always stand out. And the shirt. Iconic. The style. The class. Footballers now don’t wear shirts in the same way. Franny Lee made the shirt his. Around 250 games with almost half as many goals is a statement statistic to be proud of, for any City player.
Born in Westhoughton, Franny Lee was drawn here. He never left. Not deep down. He’ll always be behind us. Even in absence. A true legend of the game. Eternally, one of our own.
Francis Henry Lee CBE (29th April 1944 – 2nd October 2023), always known as Franny Lee
Listening to Pretty Boy blasting out of loud speakers in Wythenshawe Park, I wandered where the park’s beginnings began… and then I forgot the Noel Gallagher gig but was reminded of it whilst passing Shena Simon Campus in Manchester.
Lady Simon of Wythenshawe sounds an odd name. Yet, many Mancunians will have heard the name Shena Simon. Middle name Dorothy, perhaps. Her life spanned 21st of October 1883 through to 17th July 1972. To most Mancunians, and students of Manchester College, Shena Simon was just a campus of building name. A few may have known her as a politician, feminist, educationalist and writer. Born of London’s Croydon, Sheila moved to Manchester by the 1920s, following marriage to Ernest Simon, 1st Baron Simon of Wythenshawe.
Here Sheila Simon boycotted functions at the St Mary’s Hospital for Women because they had no female board member. From that, she became heavily involved in Manchester Council and social provision. In 1926, Wythenshawe Park was donated to the people, by herself and her husband. Over the years the Simon family pushed for accessible education and her family even have links to the funding of Jodrell Bank Observatory and the Lovell Telescope.
Gustav Heinrich Victor Amandus Simon, a German engineer, founded Henry Simon Ltd and Simon-Carves Ltd in 1878. His son Ernest Emil Darwin Simon was born a year later. By 1947, his son was elevated to Baron Simon of Wythenshawe, of Didsbury in the City of Manchester. This peerage allowed steerage to join the BBC Board of Governors. His son Roger, the 2nd Baron Simon of Wythenshawe was a left wing journalist who championed Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. His other son Brian became a teacher and professor, after dabbling with Communism and soldiering.
Roger’s child, Matilda Simon, 3rd Baroness Simon of Wythenshawe was born as Matthew and underwent transgender surgery to become first openly transgender peer of the realm of the U.K. In recent years, as a former Green Party, the 3rd Baroness Simon has been involved with tree plantation in Marple Bridge. The name Shena Simon may not be the most well-known but just reading a few bits and bobs has led me to learn that Ernest’s older half-brother Ingo Heinrich Julius William Gustav Simon knows how to fill a birth certificate and that his expansive archery collection made it to Manchester Museum. So, next time I pass Shena Simon college I will be reminded of its links to Wythenshawe Park, Alan Turing sat behind it, and a diverse family lineage stretching from former-Prussia to Marple Bridge.
Sackville Gardens, alongside Sackville Street, is home to an unusual statue-bench. Since 2001, here sits the sculpted memorial of Alan Turing. Behind Alan Turing’s resemblance is Manchester College’s Shena Simon Campus. To his right shoulder is Canal Street parallel to the Rochdale canal and to his left Manchester University’s Sackville Street Building. Education and the gay community side by side. The actual statue’s funding fell short of the target and had to be cast as far afield as China (Tianjin Focus Company). At Turing’s feet lies a message, “Father of Computer Science, Mathematician, Logician, Wartime Codebreaker, Victim of Prejudice”. Across from both the Beacon of Hope and Turing is a little-glasshouse atop of the nearby Sackville Building.
Godlee Observatory is located within the realm of the University of Manchester. The astronomical building is perched on the tower of the French Renaissance-styled Sackville Street Building. Opened in 1902, after 7 years of construction, the building shares many famous names amongst its laboratories (e.g., Henry Royce) and libraries (e.g., J.P. Joule). Outside on the walls is a blue plaque to Ivan Levinstein. He went on to develop dyes and chemicals in Crumpsall and is very much a forerunner in synthetic dye manufacturing. Next time a river turns a funky colour, you may blame Manchester.
The building, home of the University of Manchester’s School of Electrical and Electronic Engineering (EEE), has a green dome and glasshouse on its roof. A stone’s throw from the statue-bench of Alan Turing, the dome is made of none other than papier-mâché. It’s not a bad material for a century plus of operation! Francis Godlee’s gift to the people of Manchester is currently under restoration. The winding ornate wrought-iron staircases up lead to a trap door and an impressive made in Dublin Grubb telescope. Now operated by Manchester Astronomical Society, there is no re-opening date. Godlee was drawn to Manchester in the times of cotton trading, manufacturing, and rounded character involved in community, cycling, and astronomy.
This month, the Zdeněk Kopal Memorial lecture is pencilled in to start at 19:30hrs on Thursday, October 19th, 2023, in Blackett Lecture Theatre (Schuster Building, Manchester University, Oxford Road). Lectures are held monthly and are free to attend. Alternative stargazing can be found in Salford at Salford Observatory (M6 7DZ). Or, follow the AuroraWatch website for Northern Lights (aurora borealis) sightings. Alan Turing’s statue holding an apple and in a way Sackville Gardens is part of the core of Mancunian culture and history. Needless to say, above the core, looking down and up over the city is the lesser known Godlee Observatory. Millions of souls have passed by beneath, and few know its story. Thanks to John Burns, a Nottingham Forest friend, for reminding me of this little-known dome.
Sometimes, I feel backwards. Some hours, all I touch breaks. Some weeks last longer than others. Some days, a storm becomes an argument. Some moments fade to anger. Some challenges become impassable mountains. Some paths cut off. Some routes have new walls. Some connections tear apart. Some green turns to black. Some perfumes rot in sunlight. Some rainbows wash away. Somehow, I can’t walk away.
Was it yesterday we last met? Or, the week before? What? Over four years?! Unbelievable! It feels just like yesterday.
A new place with a new arrangement? Feels homely and familiar. I’ve never been here, yet it fits like a glove. Incredible! It feels just like yesterday.
Older paws and fresh tails. New photos and shirts and books and electronics. Similar but different games. Same old, same old. It feels just like yesterday.
Same voices, different figures. Hearts and minds open or closed. Warmth, deeply felt friendship. Experiences gained through tales and moments unmatched. It feels just like yesterday.
Hugs, handshakes, and cheers. One for the road. A night cap. A natter. It all matters. It’s irrelevant until it’s relevant. A proud writer talking to a writer. Audiences growing. It feels just like yesterday.
Congratulations and commiserations. Job done. Here’s to another one. Not too many years away next time. Days instead. Open doors and invites. It feels like it will be tomorrow.
A stench of heated and dried piss, dead kittens, riot Police and crippling heat are just some of the things Athens offers. And graffiti. On the positive side, thousands of years of preserved cultures, warfare history, sports, and great cuisine are to be had.
Accommodation was booked via Airbnb. A basic room with access to a shower was all I needed. The lodging on 4-8 Delfon (Kalithea), once found after a lengthy walk, did the job. Although standing in the shower, I found the top of my head touching the ceiling. The shower itself is more of a half-bath with a seated step and a shower hose and head, unattached to the wall. The sink and toilet were more functional, thankfully. A kitchen, straight out of the stereotypical filmsets of U.S.S.R. rounded off the communal areas, with a small balcony hosting a decent washing machine. The bedroom, bland, but cosy had the necessary air-conditioning unit.
Beyond the Airbnb lodging, Athens offers ample walking opportunities and plenty of ruins. Ruins in subway stations. Ruins by the road. Ruins in parks. Ruins, modern and old. This ancient city has experienced quite a modern crash of its own. Successive economic nosedive, political turmoil, earthquakes, and a lack of tourism during the CoViD-19 pandemic have ensured that you’re never far away from another ruin, abandoned outlet or sign that things aren’t so well. Not that the U.K. is any better.
The constant summer sunshine and incessant heat are stark reminders of recent wild fires and how the climate of August 2023 isn’t quite balanced. With that in mind, I hopped from shadow to shadow, under every available tree like a kangaroo-sized squirrel. Breaking to drink more and more water, fruit juices, and some much needed nibbles allowed some respite from the overhead sun. Hadrian’s Library, exposed to the baking solar rays, allowed viewing of wild tortoises and the first proper gander in a closed area of ruins.
The impressive columns, shattered walls, and flooring of Hadrian’s Library are impressive. The baking heat under your feet equally of impact. With toes on fire, hopping around the views led to an eventual passage to Piraeus and the Super League fanzone by UEFA. Satisfied the fanzone was not too exciting, save for photo opportunities with a range of Treble-winning Manchester City’s silverware and the UEFA Super Cup, I scattered for a coastal wander of Piraeus. The relentless heat guaranteed a sit down, some great local scran, and a few beers. Following that, a game of football at the G.K. Stadium, involving City’s win over Spanish side Sevilla. The win, on penalties, concluded just after midnight. It was probably the first time I saw a football game live ending the following morning.
City had won the UEFA Super Cup of their debut. Fittingly, it wasn’t far from the historic Panathenaic Stadium (also known as Kallimarmaro, meaning beautiful marble). This flash stadium has origins as far back as 330BC, remodelled in 144AD, and was rebuilt in 1896 (two years after Manchester City’s name began) as the first modern Olympic Stadium. Every Olympic flame handover is completed here before travelling to the host country and city. Without the Olympic Games, there would have been no British Empire Games, then Commonwealth Games, and no events in Manchester during 2002. Manchester City may not have left Maine Road for the now Etihad Stadium. The UEFA Super Cup may not have been lifted. Cheers Athens for helping Manchester City progress.
Amongst other wanders of Athens, several football grounds (the churches of football fans) were visited. The impressive Agia Sophia Stadium actually had a church Chapel inside (next to the bookmakers and the bookmakers). As impressive as the A.E.K. Stadium was, the dilapidated stadium of Panathinaikos could easily be mistaken as heavily graffiti-covered ruins. The whole city of Athens, to be fair, is daubed with varying football teams and their tribal colours. Gate 13, the cheaper seats in years gone by, gives its name to a supporter group and hooligan outfit. The gravity of the dark graffiti is bleak. Leoforos Alexandras Stadium was opened in 1922 and probably had more gallons of spray paint on the outside than years of existence.
Whilst I get the homage to working class seating areas, I do not understand the need for violence at football. Gate 13 has a bizarre friendship with Dinamo Zagreb ultras. This likely contributed to Zagreb thugs fatally stabbing an A.E.K. fan, ahead of a Champions League game. Over 100 Croatians attended court in the aftermath of a bloody night. This happened at a game where away fans were actually banned in advance. Many others were injured and hospitalised. The game was postponed as a result. A.E.K. rightly questioned how the game could go ahead. Rest in peace, Michalis.
“There is) no place for violence and hooliganism in European football” – Margaritis Schinas, vice president of the European Commission & Greek politician
A diverse visit to Athens for ruins, football, and reflection concluded with an early morning taxi to the airport. I dropped my luggage off after checking in. It would be the best part of a week before Aegean Airlines would get my backpack back to me. Still, as with others going to see the football, at least I came back safe and sound. Nobody should go to see a sack of air being twatted around by foot, and not return.
The fist Saturday night in Guangzhou: 42°C; Sunday’s peak of 38°C; a toasty Monday, 37°C; Tuesday’s inferno 37°C and Wednesday at 38°C. The week that followed hit highs of 36°C daily. Last week, another Wednesday clocked 37°C. Oppressive heat with a real feel peak of “feels like 49°C.” Just the twelve degrees above human body temperature. Tropical humidity. Storms were coming, again and again. Just like two weeks ago. The 6th typhoon of the year was coming, apparently. The sky was mostly cloudless, most days. 28°C nighttime lows have allowed a wander or two. The 7th typhoon bypassed us. The heat remained.
Of course, being in tropical Guangdong, snow, and ice wasn’t on the menu. Humid subtropical climates rarely see coolness in summer. Still, the average high for July is supposed to be around 32.7°C. June was predicted to be at best 32°C. August is supposed to be, on average 32.5°C. Yet Huizhou and Dongguan are pressure cookers, much like the rest of the province of Guangdong. Sea ice melts, and Antarctic floating debris remains such a long way away from here. In fact, the only ice to be had seems to be in the abundance of single use plastic pots.
As much of Mediterranean Europe cooks or turns to ash, much of the Tropical world faces similar unfamiliar and extreme weather. Much like thousands of migrants displaced to a camp, many people around the globe find themselves fleeing even their place of refuge as fire threatens their temporary sanctuary. As many deserts expand, demands for food production slim the natural water sources whilst chugging out gas and reducing wilderness. The U.N. hold summit after summit and commits countries and their leadership to act. Those countries then break laws, find ways around it, or actually act. Some do okay. Some, like Norway, do well. Many failings are critically noted as insufficient. None are meeting the “1.5°C Paris Agreement compatible” rating. None. Some countries have people who argue they should be exempt because they’re just joining the Industrial Revolution. Aren’t all countries allowed to spend 283 years doing what they want? U.S.A. has the highest quota of negativity towards reduction of climate changing impact by it people. Well, it’s probably that constitution and a breach of rights, drawn up in 1789, at a time when climate change meant leaving home for many indigenous Americans as Europeans took over. And, other lands…
Recently, I passed a protest against the use of oil. This wasn’t Just Stop Oil. It was a group of Mancunians walking through Piccadilly waving banners and flags, quietly. Not a word could be heard from them. On the other side of the road, an angry man approached. “The ice caps will melt by such a date, and such will rise the sea levels to such a point that such will end the world”, belted out the words of a counter-protester who was genuinely protesting against protesters. He carried on, “Greenhouse gases are a myth.” I instantly liked his confidence. “The scientists are paid by Greenpeace to lie.” I disliked him immediately. His rage and custom-print t-shirt were clearly beliefs of his heart. The chosen slogan was “OIL RAN OUT IN 2010.” I assumed it was a rare form of cooking oil made from dodo blood. This balding white man in Piccadilly Gardens, Manchester, could have been me. It could have been any of us. Well, those of us who deny science, favouring homeopathy, and a less bumpy Earth. Or, those who believe a higher presence is just testing us, ahead of a second coming. Or, it could be models, hypotheses, and the rapid human-induced change (since 1760) on the globe that we call home. Iron, wool, cotton, silk, and fabrics to exploding e-bikes, Poundland plastics, bottle caps, and fishing line. Perhaps the lone counter-protester can see how waste like gases, solid materials, lithium from single use electronic vapes, etc. do no harm.
I could see his argument that wildfires are lies. Many wildfires get blamed on arsonists hellbent on unlocking wild land for development or potential declassification from nature parks. It is a time-honoured Western practice for removing listed buildings of heritage status. Greenhouse gases produced by older buildings may be less or more harmful. Perhaps the counter-protestor could start by understanding that Just Stop Oil are primarily concerned with the U.K. not pumping further oil or digging more coal… they even acknowledge that the U.K. must transition its current oil dependency. Although the government and opposition party Labour seemingly resemble crack addicts scrambling for their last dregs.
“Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain. ” – Jack Kerouac
Philips Park in East Manchester is a gem. The river Medlock flows through it, surrounded by red bricks before flowing under Alan Turing Way and Manchester City’s extensive car parking facilities. Arguably, the park is less cared for under government cuts, but it still maintains a summery charm. Rises of 14 or so metres make for a varied wander. Or you could take a level path that runs the length of the park…
Back in 1846, on a day (22nd August) when Manchester opened three parks simultaneously at the same time, Philips Park was one of the largest municipal parks in Lancashire and now remains so in Greater Manchester. Covering a whopping 31 acres (12.5 hectares) it links to Philips Park cemetery (opened 1867) and loosely to Clayton Vale via a road crossing. Lady Hoghton’s former land at Philip’s Park has long complimented Manchester. On my own travels, the park has held memories of toffee apples on Bonfire Night, the Original Source Urbanathlon run, and kickabouts with mates.
Formal gardens and a bowling green sit near-idle, over an orchard for the community and a dipped-away pond. The grade-II listed site has winding pathways, an allotment, and modern BMX tracks (provided by British Cyling and the nearby National Cycling Centre). Manchester City Council operates the park, which is supported by a Friends of Philips Park group, too. The arches of an old railway display artwork as a south-eastern border to the parkland. The whole park is part of the Medlock River Valley corridor.
Located along Stuart Street and Alan Turing Way, the fields feature football goals, amphitheatre-style bowls, and an array of playground facilities for little ‘uns to enjoy. The historic head gardener’s house (designed by Salford’s Alfred Darbyshire, who helped Jameson build whiskey distilleries in Dublin) stands across the way from the Etihad Stadium and Ashton Canal. Just two miles (3.2km) from the city centre of Manchester, make Philips Park easily reachable by the Veldrome tram stop or numbers 216 and 76 buses. Bee Network cycle paths pass close by, too. Woodland, wild grassland, and undulating bumps are close to the Mancunian urban centre. The Green Flag park isn’t too bad for a picnic, should the famous Manchester weather allow possibility.
The park takes its name from M.P. Liberal Mark Philips (4 November 1800 – 23 December 1873). He was one of Manchester’s first parliamentarians after the Great Reform Act of 1832. Mark Philips was born in a park of the same name in Whitefield, just up the way. Mark Philips and others supported a Liberal form of capitalism known as Manchesterism. Just to highlight one major contribution to socialism too: Philips was instrumental in the creation of a local association of public schools, paving the way for national publicly-funded state schools. A keen supporter of access to education, he backed a free library, too. His statues can be found in the Manchester Town Hall and an estate in Stratford-upon-Avon. A man of the people who helped turn land once part of the Bradford Colliery and Estate into a green space, part of a longstanding green recovery. The park doesn’t take its name from Manchester City’s number 4, Kalvin Philips.
Do we need to give our heads a massive collective wobble? Is a bunch of suffragette-style protest interrupting a fourth set the biggest of our worry? Just how recycled is that Donald Trump-coloured confetti? Will Gladiators return to TV inspire a Last Of Us radicalisation of our survival instincts?
These past 30 calendar days have seen the highest average global temperatures on record. Presumably, a catastrophic event caused higher temperatures prior to an extinction event. Not that thermometers had been invented, and people evolved. As toasted Mediterranean olive bushes and scolded tourist skin fragrances, the air of Italy and record-breaking Sardinia, shouldn’t we be worried?
As a jetsetter, I’m part of the problem. As a consumer, I’m deeply ingrained in the cause. As a descendent of the Industrial Revolution, I’m the offspring of people who came, saw, and conquered all. We’re the revolution, we the collective that is needed to realise that we’ve gone too far. But… leaders are needed to lead. Decisions, immediate laws, and collective change to make a difference are long overdue. Sadly, UK Prime Minister(s) and other global leaders fail us. Our destructive yet beautiful oxymoron of a species is moronic and running around like a headless chicken… with its wings on fire. Totally cooked. Still, at least we can eat spicy chicken wings. Carbonated.
Forest fires? Rising in numbers. Like sea temperatures. Just like air pollution. Build a rocket boy? No! Everyone, country or business, can jettison vast amounts of space exploration gases. Dig up the coal. Burn it! Burn it all! Tax wind farms and milk the profits of oil barrels. Morality to mortality? Just Stop Rishi Sunak and his massive heated outdoor swimming pool. Our leaders and those at the top, interwoven and controlling all, have their pockets being lined, so how do we fight back?
Just Stop Oil are the suffragettes of the 21st century. Their methods may inconvenience many, and some compare them to terrorists in that they’re too active attacking people rather than leadership and authorities, but Just Stop All are making a fight, and that fight is making talk. Actions? Arguably, the actions at oil terminals helped their order.
Just Stop Oil wish to end fossil fuel licensing in the UK. Vandalism, civil resistance, direct obstruction, and road blocks have featured. Alongside tubes of superglue. Leaderless and without hierarchy, Extinction Rebellion and Insulation Britain are similar to Just Stop Oil. Each has targeted sporting events, British institutions, and maximised publicity. Art is bo exception. Glueing to a viewing. I’m not a fan of destroying heritage and culture, but isn’t it more on the line than our artistic history?
Hundreds of arrests, fines, and Police hours have been dedicated to protests and those seeking change. If it wasn’t for my profession, the consequences, and my own cowardice to abandon responsibility for protest, I’d happily join Just Stop Oil. Sadly, it’s all just my own hot air. Public Order Bill involvement seems a bit too far for this Mancunian from a city famed for radicalism. That real-life James Bond baddy, Drax, can keep pumping harmful gases in peace. As Norway taxes fossil fuel companies at 78% rates to support its economy and move to natural resources, Britain is left behind by greed and corruption. God save the King?
As for the contradiction of supporting an oil-backed football club, sporting an Etihad Airways sponsorship logo, whilst also wanting to support Just Stop Oil, that’s life, filled with contradiction… never simple. If only leaders could regulate and guide us from total destruction. Labour under Keir Starmer and the Conservatives under Rishi Sunak seem no better than one another. Both seem to vilify Just Stop Oil. Wishful thinking to think either can fix this environmental mess?
Sweltering heat bombarded in through the air-conditioned doorway. Since departing Mancunia, fresh air hadn’t been experienced for the best part of a day. The Survivor was the title of an inflight movie, but instead of a pugilist’s survival at a Nazi concentration camp, it was not an instruction to survive humidity. Not that the two should ever be appropriate in comparison.
Guangzhou’s airport felt chaotic and unwelcoming, even at 11pm. The fingerprinting machines didn’t appear to work. After 4 attempts on different machines, I gave up. I declared my health and grabbed the necessary health code to allow me through a third checkpoint. At the fourth, I filled in the necessary immigration card and answered a few questions as I crossed into China. I picked up my backpack and noted that the top section was open. Some things had been removed. Later, I’d contact the airline and insurance company. At just before midnight, I didn’t fancy trying pigeon Chinese to speak to the Police or airport security.
As it was so late, the subway railway was closed. I gambled on a bus and managed to get to Tianhe Square, a 30-minute walk from Yicheng Hotel and Guangzhou East railway station. Without a local mobile number or WiFi access, I managed to get to the hotel and get my head down by 2.30 am. The relentless heat, a far cry from the fresh and cool Mancunian air I’d left behind. It seemed that Emirates Airways had whisked me away, with extra legroom, to a pressure cooker. Far from the warm kitchen in Manchester, where Mum and Paul prepared dinner, I’d left 18°C clear-ish skies for hostile hours of heat.
The calm air-conditioned flight featuring Fisherman’s Friends 2: One and All. Filled with beautifully shot scenes, witty lines, and emotionally energetic stories, the movie clasps attention like the Guangzhou weather suffocates breathing of those used to chillier climes. The things we do for hugs.
“No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
Over 179 years have passed since Chapman & Hall published A Christmas Carolon December 19th, 1843. The original title Charles Dickens has been lost to time. A Christmas Carol. In Prose. Being a Ghost Story of Christmas remains. Have times changed? Is the novella outdated and irrelevant? Or, is their a reason why its story remains an enduring feature of the stage, silver screen, print and audiobooks? Crikey, even Sir Patrick Stewart reads parts on TikTok. “That is what it is to be human: To make yourself more than you are.”
“You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese…” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
The book, a well-visited tale is divided into five staves. These parts allow three spirits to visit between an introduction and a conclusion. The structure of the novel is clear and flows, making translation to multiple language feasible and lasting. Its story takes place in just a 24 hour period, making it the inspiration for Kiefer Sutherland’s Jack Bauer (not the cyclist from New Zealand). As tough as Jack Bauer is, the central character Ebenezer Scrooge appears unbreakable. A tough old boot.
“I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
A plethora of retellings, re-imaginings and interpretations have crossed political and social borders. Whether it is that of Bill Murray, Ebenezer Blackadder, or Michael Caine opposite Kermit the Frog, the central character Ebenezer Scrooge is instantly recognisable. Look closely at Dr Seuss’s The Grinch and you’ll see Scrooge in cold-hearted green. Stave one sees cheerful and kind-hearted Fred visits his mean Uncle Ebenezer at his counting house. He persists and resists spirits being dampened by Scrooge’s venomous tongue. Invited to a meal, Ebenezer Scrooge declines. As he does for a charitable donation request. Charity muggers are sent away. Soon, at his home, he sees a dead business colleague in his door knocker. Startled by that encounter, he is later visited by the chained ghost of Jacob Marley. Marley warns penny-pinching Scrooge that his future is bleak, should he not change his ways. He also warns that salvation can be sought following the visit of three ghosts. Plot delivered.
“I’ll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
Stave two sees the Ghost of Christmas Past, take Scrooge back in time. Here he views his previous boss Mr Fezziwig. In an old-fashioned take on BBC’s The Apprentice, Scrooge’s version of Alan Sugar is seen within the workplace displaying all forms of warmth, generosity and benevolence. The jovially affectionate nature of Fezziwig contrasts with his moderate profiteering and highlights how bigger traders were sweeping aside the small ownership family businesses of the 19th century. Fezziwig is very much a Baron Sidney Lewis Bernstein (Granada TV founder) of his time.
“Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
The ending of the stave is too sad for Scrooge to take. Scrooge protests and resists, waking up in his bedroom once more. His ephemeral encounter had been well-meaning, yet here Scrooge must have known that more was to come. He could not have known what those next two likely encounters would entail. Scrooge’s welfare was safely out of his hands for the moment. Could he rise and walk again?
“Most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
Bob Cratchit is the uncomplaining clerk to the parsimonious Scrooge. He does what he is told, almost like an obedient dog. This timid man is married to Mrs Cratchit. His wife in her “twice-turned gown” is the gratuitous optimist. She makes the best of a bad situation. Next in the family is Martha Cratchit, a hatter, just like many Stockport folk once were. It remains to be seen if she suffered from Mad hatter disease (a form of chronic mercury poisoning, associated with the hatting industry). The Cratchit family have a son, and here forms stave three. Bob Cratchit’s mundanely repetitive job counting cash for his superior could ill-afford him time of leave to stay with family at a Victorian-era Christmas. As Christmas grew, so could Bob’s internal worries. Tiny Tim appeared a condemned young soul.
“”It’s only once a year, sir,” pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
Tight-fisted Scrooge joins the jollily prophetic and welcoming Ghost of Christmas Present to visit Tiny Tim. Tiny Tim, not to be mistaken for the late singer-activist Hebert Butros Khaury, is ill and proper care cannot be given. The Cratchit family suffer in the same niche as many Mancunian families do in the 21st century when seeking mental healthcare. Tiny Tim may have had origins on a real boy in the old mills of cotton-factory Manchester. Kind, thoughtful and incapacitated as Tiny Tim is, this character radiates positivity and reflects his family’s attitudes to challenging shortcomings. To quote my elder brother Asa, “It is what it is.”
“If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
After being told that Tiny Tim will snuff it, the Ghost of Christmas Present visits Fred’s house and highlights two hideous representations of ignorance and want. Danger was afoot. Gratefulness and sympathy lay firmly in Bob Cratchit’s court, yet the bad-tempered leader Scrooge’s connections and empathy lay far away from humanity. Think Wolverhampton-born, St John’s College-educated Immigration Minister Robert Jenrickpainting over murals in a Kentish centre of children’s asylum. Scrooge would have been proud? His leadership team in Parliament are just after stopping immigrants on boats. And welcoming children.
“Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come enters stave four. His ominous, dark and silent presence guides Scrooge to the possible death of Tiny Tim. Other visions also guide Scrooge from the dark side to the side of the angels. One of which sees a grave with the etchings of Scrooge’s name. After you’ve seen scallywags sifting through your abandoned rucksacks and filing cabinets, I challenge you not to feel glum. Imagine listening in on relatives bickering about your Last Will and Testament. Let’s hope that’s not too relatable. Balance your books before you go.
“…a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
Stave five ends positively, as the latter stage of the book follows the transition of Scrooge from out and out despondent miser to benevolent altruist. He gives,. He rewards. He feels joy again. Tiny Tim doesn’t die. In fact, Tiny Tim gets the equivalent of a Godfather. Christmas once again is filled with merriment. Solitary death averted, Scrooge is reformed. He can even take a joke. Redemption in under 24 hours.
“Let him in! It is a mercy he didn’t shake his arm off.” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
During the Victorian era, Love Actually and E.T. couldn’t be screened on televisions. Those technologies hadn’t arrived. Ghost stories were the hip way to spend time. Dickens went further than most, smothering his with wealth, injustice and all the injustices of wealth distribution of Victorian England. It pre-dated Downton Abbey but equally its conflict in social responsibility is shared. The importance of family and love at Christmas is growing, with dinners, carol singing, trees, cards and high spirits increasing. Christmas is seen as a time to bring people closer together. Its religious meaning is present, yet less announced. Those without would, no doubt, see what they are missing. Inequality was rife and obvious.
“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery; None but ourselves can free our mind…” – Redemption Song, Bob Marley & The Wailers
The aftermath of diving into A Christmas Carol slams home the message that children are the responsibility of all mankind. Not that Robert Jenrick would agree. Perhaps he shall read this novella realise the failings of only thinking of oneself. Or, like many Conservative ministers, likely maintain a selfishness that the richer elements of Victorian society once held. Poor laws, prisons and workhouses once dealt with the poor destitute working class. These days we have zero-hour contracts at Amazon and less-than-living wages at McDonalds. Perhaps, the final stave and its message of completion and possibility should be explored as a mandatory fit-to-govern the U.K. test. A bit of pity goes a long way. “The sound of” children playing and shouting should be “so delightful that even the ‘air’ is laughing.”
“God bless us, every one!” – A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
Toby Jones, now seemingly everywhere, went a tad crazed in the recent Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny. As Harrison Ford searched for the thermostat settings, our man Jones, Toby that is, acted impeccably. His rise to Hollywood from the University of Manchester has been truly Marvellous. Just as Toby floats in and out of Marvel superhero movies, he can be seen on local stories such as The Detectorists and true stories such as Neil Baldwin’s surreal biopic Marvellous. One radio production that does stand out is that of An Inspector Calls. The 2010 production has been lauded, and Inspector Goole, played by Toby Jones is just one character in a story as relevant now as it was when penned by John Boynton Priestley.
“Arthur Birling is a heavy looking, rather portentous man.” – An Inspector Calls, J.B. Priestley
J.B. Priestley was a man of all trades: novelist, playwright, screenwriter, broadcaster and commentator. Raised in Manningham, part of once industrial Bradford, Priestley grew up in the shadow of mill chimneys and his headmaster of a father. His mother passed away in J.B.’s toddler years, but by the time he had reached Belle Vue Boys’ Grammar School, his father had remarried. On the banks of the Bradford Beck river, up from Belle Vue Terrace at Bradford City’s historic valley parade, the young writer J.B. was well placed to see the social norms of those who attended either grammar school or state schools. The Great War and wounds interrupted his early foray into journalism. Survival of the war allowed this ambitious writer the chance to attend the University of Cambridge. Trinity Hall. Having Boris Karloff star in one of his novels adapted to a movie did no harm. J.B. Priestley found time between writing to barrage words towards writers Graham Greene, George Bernard Shaw and pretty much all of Ireland. His prejudice and opinions placed him well during World War II. Here his voice became a BBC mainstay, second only to Prime Minister Sir-to-be W.L.S. Churchill.
“…no longer competing but are working together – for lower costs and higher prices.” – An Inspector Calls, J.B. Priestley
Perhaps Churchill or his cabinet led to J.B. Priestley being removed from the airwaves, for one reason or another. Perhaps not. It led to new pathways for the aspirational writer. The 1941 Committee, charged with increasing efficient war efforts called. Actors, Lords, writers, evolutionary biologists, and prominent people explored ways for people to live after the conclusion of the way. Chairing the committee was J.B. Priestley. Later he formed the breakaway Common Wealth Party, in some ways a forerunner of the political party, the Liberal Democrats. Oddly that put him on George Orwell’s radar. Orwell, tasked with identifying writers with pro-communist leanings, labelled J.B. Priestley as questionable. J.B. Priestley was with his second wife, in the last few years of that marriage. By this stage, the play An Inspector Calls was causing quite a stir. The stage play had debuted in the Soviet Union in 1945. It would be almost a year before London’s New Theatre would stage this drama. Did World War II bring Britain’s classes together?
“When you marry, you’ll be marrying at a very good time. Yes, a very good time – and soon it’ll be an even better time.” – An Inspector Calls, J.B. Priestley
The morality play focuses slaps capitalism down, clutches at the hypocrisy of the middle-class, and stamps down on outdated Victorian social values. Capitalism and socialism can be viewed through Arthur Birling and Inspector Goole, respectively. Set in 1912, neglect and prejudice thread between the dialogue and consequent suicide of working class Eva Smith. She died a death by Donald Trump’s preferred form of CoViD-19 cure, disinfectant. Inspector Goole grills the Birling family over entries into the departed Eva Smith’s diary. Arthur the patriarch alongside cold, yet superior, Mrs Sybil and their offspring Sheila and LadBible.com reader Eric make up the cast, alongside their mate Gerald Croft. Edna is the Mrs Doyle of the family, brewing up for all. The play features gentlemanly chivalry befitting a James Bond movie without the action. There’s a mention or two of the poor deserving this, that, and the other.
“Fiddlesticks! The Germans don’t want war. Nobody wants war…” – An Inspector Calls, J.B. Priestley
An Inspector Calls raises many questions with respect to its interpretation and content. How does Priestley present Mr Birling in An Inspector Calls? How does Priestley use Mr Birling to get his ideas across in the rest of the play? Does this character change? Why does Mr Birling use certain language? The play moves through Eva Smith’s stages as a factory worker, a shop worker, near homelessness and as a pregnant and potential future mother-to-be. The latter stage of deceased is speculative. It is both a morality crime thriller and an intricate crafted play, requiring the reader or watcher to pay attention. The use of repetition, cliff-hangers, shock (“Burnt her inside out”), twists (“That was the police.”), pauses, gasps, asides, and fluent dialogue. What effect does this have on the audience? How does Priestley use language to create drama?
“There’ll be peace and prosperity and rapid progress everywhere.” – An Inspector Calls, J.B. Priestley
An Inspector Calls is a play often referred to as J.B. Priestley’s masterpiece. It has been staged beyond then BBC, as far as Iran, as translated by political activist and writer بزرگ علوی. Good luck reading his name! Bozorg Alavi, incidentally. Richard “I don’t believe it!” Wilson even produced a version with Hugh Grant fluttering his eyes in the Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester. It is possible to encounter multiple versions and imaginings of this play. BBC Radio with Bob Peck, Hong Kong (浮華宴), Bengali and Russian (Inspektor Gull) movies exist. In the U.K., it forms a backbone of G.C.S.E. English Literacy. The theme of age and the age of the play are as relevant as ever. As are the themes of class and gender, if you look at state of current world politics. Do we look after each other in society? Ask this question in the U.K., Italy and Norway for perhaps very different responses. How do older and younger generations perceive one another? Do children reflect their parents? Or, have younger generations progressed, regressed or adapted to new conditions?
“If you don’t come down sharply on some of these people, they’d soon be asking for the earth.” – An Inspector Calls, J.B. Priestley
The dialogue is sharp and shocking, full of Titanic-sized dramatic irony, rank and status, as well as the obsession of money. Tragedy and hoaxes are banded about like rumour and jokes. Boris Johnson and his Conservative government during and after the 2019 CoViD pandemic would have been proud of the Birling family’s reaction and inaction. Business experience appears to bypass humanity, favouring ability to profit over the death of an innocent person. The finale of the play draws the viewer in, building tension and raises questions. Who was Inspector Goole? What was his involvement? What is social responsibility? The characters, themes, form, structure and language coupled with the plot blend to create a sharp and dark story. Similarly, do leaders in our society take responsibility for their behavior?
John Boynton Priestley (13th September 1894-14th August 1984)
Too much pressure, I’m at boiling point. Crawling beneath, and within, hidden desperation. I know not, and no longer see what’s around me. I’m scared, so afraid, bring me down.
Too much pressure, bubbling over. I cannot taste this food you make. Isolated, solitary, remote, godforsaken, detached from you. There is no love about this town. The fury I feel is bringing me down. Curled up here, afraid to move.
Too much pressure, burning up. I cannot hear the sound of birds. Rile, irritable, aggravating, enraged – no smiles. All intrinsics, essentials, and instincts instantly lost. Insobriety, inebriated, intoxicated, disappearing. This night stayed. No reappearance nearing.
Too much pressure, feeling cold. I cannot feel your hand on mine. Unevenness, rough, changed, random protrusions throwing out delusions and illusions. Sleeping here in fear’s shadow, hiding away. Cold, clammering, coughing, spluttering, wheezing and sneezing. I struggle to breathe, numb and wheezing.
Too much pressure, reaching boiling point. Too much pressure, bubbling over. Too much pressure, burning up. Too much pressure, feeling cold. Pressure relieving as I slip away. Drifting and shifting. I’m out. Gone.
Morality is an argument. Conscientious decisions trouble. Choices a barrage of beratement. Unearthed memories lay in rubble.
Wicked temptation twists contemplation. Rightfully wrongly, lyrics of living. Shrouded silk on slivered sensation. The sieged scattered soul of sacred sieving.
Reflection reigns readily within contrast. Thoughts tumble twist, blast, and clash. Tumultuous turmoil thrashes out the past. What once was, and what no longer is, rests in ash.
Triumphant yesterday smoulders in the mirror. Grounded mortar spills from split seams. Consider it, nor will it deliver and trigger a shiver. The remains of the day gleams no further dreams.
