Manchester

Newton Heath

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This way to the motion

This way I finally go

God hand me a chance to reply

God deal me a possibility

Grab your thoughts and let’s go

Round our way

Drabness wraps silent days

Buried beneath, I could be

Time to escape this forgotten place

This way to set motions

Pioneering experiences are rife

We should seek our recompense

We should escape to seek luminescence

We slide a pathway downwards

We slip on stones downwards

The supermarket lay dormant

Even the pound shops sag lazily

This way full of emotion

This way we cannot go

God hand a hope in hell

God deal out and show

Drabness wraps silent nights

Dull broken tower blocks sagging

Buried beneath I could be

Dull broken tower blocks flagging

The market is gone

The library fades from thoughts

The canal is filled with unwanted waste

The bars have barred-up broken windows

Long left the football team

The cemetery has been buried further

The old spire stands unsighted

Its stained-glass soul shattered 

The locos are rusting beyond repair

The Vale’s trees collapse in gales

Brookdale, a car park of gas-heads

This way for our motion

This way we finally go

God hand us a chance to fly

God deal us a possibility

Platform 14.

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Unmoving floor, a walkway without tread.

Far away and far off.  Platform 14.

Almost to the horizon, beyond a travelator.

Up stairs and along a fair way. Platform 14.

The timezones crossed often lead your way.

Rammed carriages versus spacious misplaced trains. Platform 14.

Visit the world, a gateway to Blackpool.

Delays, delays, delays… and freight passing. Platform 14.

Is the moon closer or the sun further?

Pass through the bowels of Piccadilly. Platform 14.

Exposed to the elements: a wind tunnel or a sauna.

A detached island left hanging outside. Platform 14.

“STAND BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE!”

Platform 14: visit Manchester some time.

Summer ’25: I – A Quest for Hope

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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.

Kinder Scout Eggs

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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.

Escaped Alone / What If If Only

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Recently director Sarah Frankcom delivered two incredible plays at the Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester. The radiant light of the domed roofing cascading light over an internal structure resembling The Crystal Maze’s finale.

First up was Escaped Alone cloaked in a tremendous intensity. For 50 minutes, a quartet of acting stars deliver performances worthy of awards. Award-winning 74-year-old Annette Badland (Ted Lasso, Bergerac, and many, many more) has appeared on the silver screen, radio, theatre, and other media. Escaped Alone and What If If Only, Annette Badland played two different roles. The dramatic Glaswegian voice of Maureen Beattie OBE (Casualty, The Bill, and a whole host of other appearances) filled the stage through a succession of apocalyptic articulations and enunciations with her stage peers. Margot Leicester has strolled many stages, film sets, and studios. Her credits include Coronation Street and Casualty (the go to show for acting). Souad Faress has featured in The Archers, Casualty, and The Spy starred throughout the effusion, delivering the outpouring histrionic excellently.

What If If Only brutally strikes at the heart – even though it only lasts 25 minutes. The dialogue is sharp, enticing, and enhances the talented cast within a tale familiar to memory. The depths of loss, grief, and anguish mask fond memories and occasions. Here the lost future, present, and more visit upon a hapless mourner. Game of Throne’s 18-year-old co-starlet Bea Glancy featured in a haunting segment of What If If Only. The main star of this gripping grief-stricken play is Time and Beaker Girls actress Danielle Henry. Across from the main character, Someone, is Waterloo Road star Lamin Touray, fresh from All Creatures Great and Small and other such roles. The Royal Exchange Elders add further dimension to Caryl Churchill’s play.

All in all, two great plays, watched at a time of rightfully-heightened emotion. A pleasure to accompany my Mam to each performance. And if you haven’t booked a ticket for the theatre, “Go to”.

Spiralling down.

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The awesome of the mysterious light, radiating through a fine mist, drifting towards me was mesmerising. The patterns like straps on a parachute ascending upwards like a triangle missing its uppermost plain.

I tried to video it and take photographs. Even as Panda, my dog, nudged me to throw his ball, I pondered, wondered, and questioned what it could be. I knew from the object’s translucent state, it couldn’t be a drone. The misty form transformed passing rays of light outwardly. I queried all my logic. It couldn’t be a weather balloon. Not even a burst one.

I watched as it appeared to disappear and pass directly overhead. Then reappear, fade, and appear once more. I could see satellites passing overhead, far above this unidentified floating object. And aircraft flashing way up high. Its course stayed true, from Moston toward Clayton, Manchester. I pinged an image and video to my space expert friend Dan. He has raised his twin boys on a diet of the outer limits and knowledge.

An excited reply came back, “Maybe a rocket launch. SpaceX? I’ll ask Alex.” One of the twins would know or have a better idea. The light orb appeared to fan out like that of a ship’s rudder. Was this a projection? A hologram? No visible beams could be seen in the very clear sky. Not even a cloud. For Manchester, without a cloud is a spectacle itself!

Alex and Dan came back by message, see SpaceX launch in Florida, a few who’s previous. And that’s when looking at they sky became ruined again. Mites danced in the highest of visible atmosphere. The satellite pathways of Starlink and so on. Hundreds and thousands. Many of which become visible all too often. What would our ancestors make of it?

From hunter-gatherers of old to modern and better equipped people, eyes to their skies has been normalised and led to discovery and theories, or stories and moments of magic. I’ll confess this fuel dump by SpaceX was enchanting. Until I thought about the waste. The atmospheric dumping of gases and liquids. What would be the consequences? My adopted cousin Anthony commented, “Elon is pissing on us all.” He’s right. The days of Mulder and Scully are limited.

Diane Charlemagne – Underrated Mancunian

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Diane Charlemagne wasn’t Dido. She didn’t feature on Eminem’s Stan. She could have. Instead, her voice permeated a string of hits, club classics, and iconic songs. Sadly, discovering her name and back catalogue, I realised that I was too little, too late. And she’s a Manc. Why hadn’t I heard of her?

For many years, I had the song, “The key, the secret” bouncing around my head. Diane’s voice held that tune. Having sang alongside Moby and Elton John, having featured on Goldie’s Inner City Life amongst others, Diane Charlemagne deserves greater recognition – and she was Mancunian.

In the vibrant tapestry of Manchester’s music scene, where every note finds its rhythm and every song tells a story, one voice soared above the rest: Diane Charlemagne. With a name that echoes through the annals of music history like a perfectly pitched chorus, Diane was more than just a singer; she was a force of nature, a vocal virtuoso, and the beating heart of Manchester’s melodic soul. Oddly, few people know her name.

Born, February 2nd, 1964, in Manchester, Diane was destined for musical greatness from the heave-ho-get-go. Apparently, even as a child, she had a knick-knack for turning mundane moments into impromptu concerts, much to the bemusement of her family and neighbours. Her early years were a symphony of talent shows and local gigs, each performance adding a note to the masterpiece that would become her career.

Diane first strutted onto the big stage with the band 52nd Street, a group that effortlessly blended soul, funk, and jazz into a sound as smooth as silk and as infectious as a catchy jingle. Their single “Tell Me (How It Feels)” rocketed up the charts, and Diane’s voice, with its rich timbre and emotional depth, was the secret ingredient that left listeners hooked. Manchester’s very own diva with a voice that could melt butter and a stage presence that could ignite fireworks. Yet, only amongst a select audience.

Yet, Diane was no one-hit-wonder. She was seen as a musical chameleon, seamlessly transitioning from the sultry vibes of 52nd Street to the pulsating beats of dance music. Her collaboration with the band Urban Cookie Collective on the track “The Key, The Secret” became an anthem of the 90s rave scene, propelling her to international stardom. With her powerful vocals driving the song’s euphoric energy, Diane became the queen of the dance floor, commanding crowds with a single note. And that got her noticed.

Like any true artist, Diane was not content to rest on her laurels. She sought new challenges and found them in the world of drum and bass. Teaming up with Goldie, the genre’s godfather, Diane lent her voice to the iconic track “Inner City Life.” Her haunting, soulful delivery added a layer of poignancy to the song, transforming it into a timeless classic. Critics and fans alike hailed her as the undisputed siren of drum and bass, a title she wore with grace and humility.

“Inner city life; Inner city pressure; Inner city life; Inner city pressure taking over me (yeah, yeaaah); But I won’t let go” – Inner City Life, Goldie

Despite her impressive accolades and the glitz of the spotlight, Diane remained grounded. She was known for her generosity, her infectious laughter, and her unwavering dedication to her craft. Her collaborations with artists across genres (from jazz maestro Moby to pop sensation Beverley Knight) demonstrated her versatility and her boundless passion for music.

Tragically, Diane’s vibrant life was cut short in October 2015, when she passed away after a battle with cancer. However, her legacy endures, resonating through the speakers and headphones of music lovers around the world. Manchester lost a star, but the universe gained a voice that may echo through the ages. In the end, Diane Charlemagne was much more than a singer from Manchester. She was a musical luminary whose voice could paint emotions and conjure memories. Her journey from local talent shows to international stages is a testament to her extraordinary talent and indomitable spirit.

Beryl Is Dead.

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A scuff along my left inner calf. Just beneath that a short slash of loose skin. A sore knee. The result of a power-assisted pedal down an ill-fitting road. What started as a simple ser if errands had quickly escalated into a farce. All in the name of public and green transport.

Many people that I know argue that the best car driving experiences involve hire cars. The same can’t be said for Manchester’s new-ish Beryl bikes. The bee-crested Bee Network bikes have been around the city for some time. Their yellow livery and solid frames, like bees, give off a sense of warning. Many hit accelerate in their hire cars, and some give little care to how they return them. I pride myself on treating all in my possession as my own. I aimed to take this hire bike back safely.

Departing a bus stop in Ardwick, I ran my first errand, and toyed with the idea of a bus back to town and then across to Openshaw. I passed a rack of yellow bikes. I decided to download the Beryl application. I followed the instructions and was quickly away. I slowed past the site of the former Daisy Mill in Longsight. I sped on, deciding to swing via Gorton and then Openshaw before heading for Newton Heath. That was my first error.

The second error was not locking the bike, despite using the screen to lock it. The screen kept flashing with a lock bike message. Then I slid the black rear lock in place. It said I could park for 15 minutes. I gave myself 5 minutes in the shop. Within minutes, 4 phone warnings flashed up. The reasonable minutes per bike riding were okay. The £25 out of zone parking was not. It had not paused the journey. It ended the journey. I soon contacted team Purple on the Beryl application. Displeased was an understatement.

After some careless negotiation, enraged, with sore cold hands on a phone that refused to steady my nerves, I had negotiated my charges back. Just the charges. Not the journey fee. I left it a few days, and even now, 6 days later, I feel angry at such a poor experience. Use more environmental transport? Hmm. No thanks.

I’d managed a loop and ended almost where I’d started. Racking and placing the two locks onto the bumbling Bee bike, I became infuriated by the complexity of a simple enough ride. I’ve used similar services in Germany, China, Japan, and Denmark, yet here in my hometown, hiring a bike seemed as complex as spliting the atom.

加油曼城! C’MON CITY!

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2024 will be a year of tidying, organising and shuffling. The below comes from a former page. It is now a post, archived, as my involvement with Shenzhen Blues has ended.

SHENZHEN BLUES 深圳曼城官方球迷会

First Official MCFC Supporters Club in Mainland China 中国内地首家曼城官方认证球迷会 [00164]

Our contact details: (feel free to drop us a line… 欢迎联络, 给我们留言…)

WeChat/Weibo: ShenzhenBlues / Twitter: Shenzhen_Blues / www.shenzhenblues.cn / contactus@shenzhenblues.cn / Facebook: SZblues

(你可以躺在床上看比赛/ Watch the game in your bed)

现在来点完全不同的东西吧…  AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT…

加我们项目负责成员的微信. Wechat :  our team members who can assist you

们是曼城 / WE ARE CITY

1深圳曼城球迷会将会继续分享全中国曼城球迷的各种照片和故事。它不仅是一个展现深圳球迷，更是展现世界所有球迷风采的同好基地。

Shenzhen Blues will share any photos and stories from City fans throughout China. It is a fanzine for all our fans and not just those in Shenzhen.

请分享我们深圳曼城球迷会的官方微信公众号或为它点赞。

Please like and share our official wechat account.
我们在尽力用中英双语呈现出更多信息

We try to have translated materials in English and/or Chinese.

也一定会有过去和现在的各种相关照片

There are always photographs from the past and present.

重要的信息会在这个群里发布，也会有其他部分相关信息

Important information is shared through this channel. There are often other little bits of interest too.

您也可以通过订阅的方式获取第一手的资料，欢迎各位订阅。

You can submit articles, photos or materials too. Please feel free to do so.

SZB BANNER
REALLY EASTLANDS M.C.O.S.C. in CHINA

SHARE YOUR O.S.C.

球迷会名称/Club name: / 球迷会联系方式/Club contacts:
微博或其他社交媒体链接/Weibo or social media links: / 微信账号/Wechat account:
关于我们/About us: / 最后，请分享一些照片。/Finally, please share some photos.
衷心感谢你们/THANK YOU KINDLY. 爱与和平。Peace and love.

SHENZHEN BLUES 深圳曼城官方球迷会

First Official MCFC Supporters Club in Mainland China 中国内地首家曼城官方认证球迷会 [00164]

Shenzhen was the location for the Blues friendly against Borussia Dortmund, which allowed supporters in the region to enjoy much more than the live matchday experience.

The tour was the perfect opportunity for the Club to connect with their Chinese fans and to celebrate this the Shenzhen Blues hosted a special event at their base – McCawley’s Irish Pub.

Tosin Adarabioyo, Angelino, Willy Caballero and Jason Denayer were the guests of honour as they took part in a Q&A and signing session.

The event carried extra significance as the Hong Kong and Melbourne branches were also in attendance as well as participants from City Football Schools’ project in Shenzhen, which made for a memorable coming together of City fans around the world.

With the Capital One Cup on display, supporters had a rare opportunity to capture a selfie with the famous trophy, while our Hong Kong branch’s support was recognised as they were presented with a commemorative plaque from Club Ambassador and City legend, Mike Summerbee.

Our Melbourne branch were an ever present during pre-season, and for member Wade Whitwell, the Shenzhen event topped off an incredible trip following the Blues. He said: “Shenzhen was a highlight of the pre-season tour for me. The great atmosphere in McCawley’s and sharing time with other Australians, the Hong Kong branch, the Shenzhen Blues and those from Manchester City made the trip to China so worthwhile.”

Similarly, Martin NG, the Hong Kong Branch Secretary, was delighted to have the opportunity to meet his City heroes.

“I feel very happy and proud to have taken part in this event and it was great to meet the players, who were all very nice”, he added.

You can see all the action from the event on Inside City 201.

See more: BlueMoon Forum (City China and SZBs post)

Xi’an: The Original Home of Football? Think Cuju (蹴鞠)

球迷会名称/Club name: 西安曼城球迷会 Xi’an Manchester City fans Association Club

球迷会联系方式/Club contacts: 阿圭罗的小媳妇儿 [Aguero’s Wife]

微博或其他社交媒体链接/Weibo or social media links: 西安曼城球迷会（微博名）
微信账号/Wechat account: 西安曼城球迷会（公众号）

关于我们/About us: 古称长安。长安城作为古代第一个人口破百万的国际化大都市，北濒渭河，南依秦岭，八水润长安。在这座古老的城市里，住着一群有着蓝色信仰的人们，这群人的存在给这座城市注入了新的活力，这就是我们——西安曼城球迷会。

不论你是土生土长的西安人，还是身在西安的异乡人，亦或是远在他乡的西安乡党，只要你信仰蓝月，我们都向你敞开怀抱。

Xi’an, is an ancient town, once known as Chang’an. Xi’an was one of the Four Great Ancient Capitals.
Xi’an is the original starting point of the Silk Road. Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s Terracotta Army is based here. Bordered to the north by the Weihe River, the southern Qinling Mountains and known for 8 rivers, the city has great diversity and history. The sky blue and white faith of City reached Xi’an in modern times and adds vitality to a City mostly know for its great food and castle walls. Whether you are a native to Xi’an, or a visitor to Xi’an, Xi’an’s OSC opens their arms to meet you and your love for the Blue Moon. No reds allowed.

Expect to eat: Roujiamo Chinese Hamburger (肉夹馍); Liangpi (凉皮); Paomo Mutton, beef, and Bread Pieces in Soup (羊肉泡馍); Biang Biang Noodles (油泼扯面); Jinggao Steamed rice cake stuffed with honey dates and black beans (甑糕).

Expect to see: Fortifications of Xi’an & Xi’an City Wall (西安城墙); Xi’an Bell Tower (西安钟楼); the Drum Tower of Xi’an (西安鼓楼); Mount Li (骊山); Mausoleum of the First Qin Emperor (Qin Shi Huang) (秦始皇陵); Terracotta Army (兵马俑); Shaanxi Galaxy (陕西银河); Shaanxi Guoli F.C. (陕西国力); Shaanxi Renhe Commercial Chanba F.C. (陕西人和商业浐灞); Shaanxi Dongsheng (陕西东盛); Xi’an Evening News (西安晚报); Qinqiang opera (乱弹).
Did you know? Arthur Gostick Shorrock [from Blackburn, Lancashire, England] and Moir Duncan founded the Sianfu Mission in 1892.

U.K. Twin cities & Towns: Edinburgh, Bury St. Edmunds & Birmingham

爱与和平/Peace and love

DONGGUAN EASTLANDS – MANCHESTER CITY O.S.C.

WE’RE REALLY HERE.

WHERE DO WE MEET? We have a junior club – and we have the more senior options. Sometimes we gather at Irene’s Bar (Dongguan); Murray’s Irish Pub (Dongcheng, Dongguan) & road trips to join the Shenzhen Blues, Huizhou Blues or Guangzhou Blues. Actually, there’re just two of us for now.

WHEN DO WE MEET? Please contact acton28 on WeChat.

WHO ARE WE? Perhaps the smallest collective of Manchester City fans in China, so far.

WHY HAVE A CITY O.S.C. IN DONGUAN? Dongguan is a massive City of around 10 million people and is dominated by basketball, however football is growing. The aim of Dongguan Eastlands is to raise attention of Manchester City and football in general. At the end of the day, build it and they will come. There is no harm in trying. Like Manchester’s past, this city of Dongguan is industrial. Busy worker bees are everywhere.

WHEN WERE WE FOUNDED? On hold. Membership problems.

NOT COMING SOON

Official WeChat: 曼城足球俱乐部 mcfcofficial / Official website: http://www.mancity.com / https://cn.mancity.com/

一线队赛程 / Fixtures

All my people, right here, right now, d’ya know what I mean?

Waterfall… & Worsley

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Thursday’s wander (9.5 miles/15.5km) preceded Friday’s wandering (9 miles/15km). Both started beyond 1pm in the afternoon. Both ended as dusk passed to dark. Each walk connected to former mining sites.

Left: Thursday. Right: Friday.

Arriving at Shaw and Crompton by Metrolink, the walk led past The Morning Star public house on Grains Road. Passing The Black Ladd public house and the King’s Arms, the path once again ended up on Grains Road, by Bishops Park golf range. Turning onto a sodden mud track off Ship Lane, the aimed point of the walk entered near-sight. Here, towering over Bishops Park, a stone monument offered views to at least four counties.

Being stood at Oldham’s highest point, it didn’t take much to meander down to the source of the River Medlock. Vast quantities of water bubbled out of a gap barely bigger than a shoebox. Panda, the dog, lapped up the freshwater and hopped amongst the boggy grassland above. My boots were tested well. With that, further steps were taken.

Heading back toward The Black Ladd pub, via farm pathways and a selection of Lancashire’s finest mud. At Dog Hill Lane, the Buckstones Road led to Shore Edge Methodist Church and up a track to Brushes Clough Reservoir. A muddy yet serine picturesque place. Following the pathways around a quarry and skirting Crompton Moor, the pathway looped over Old Brook. Pingot Quarry Waterfall was the icing on a cake after a decent afternoon’s rambling. Naturally, surrounded by mud.

After a delightful waterfall came the walk back to the Metrolink stop at Shaw and Crompton. Full circle. The next day, the Metrolink start would be Eccles. The finale at the Trafford Centre Metrolink terminal. The lengthy wander through Monton passed more coffee shops than I have digits on my hands. After passing Monton Unitarian Church, it was possible to hop onto the Roe Green Loopline cycle and footpath.

The former Tyldesley Loopline railway line passes through Worsley Station. It runs almost parallel, although distancing from, to the Bridgewater Canal. The Dukes Drive green looked flooded from a saturated Folly Brook, sat beneath the raised embankments of the pathway. The pleasant path followed a straight and even course, ideal for cycling, rambling and dogwalkers alike.

At first instance of signage for Old Warke Dam, a left turn led up to a large lake underneath an old house and magical woodlands stretching up and over to Worlsey Delph. Here, like yesterday’s quarry in Crompton, evidence of mining stretched around the cold damp rocks. Worsley, as documented by the excellent Martin Zero, amongst many, is a feature-filled landscape draped in architecture and modern wonder. The Bridgwater Canal, the Alphabet Bridge, and countless old buildings spoil visitors for sights of sites. The canal pointed the remainder of the walk toward the Barton Swing Bridge at Trafford and over the Manchester Ship Canal. A stone’s throw from a place to hop on the Metrolink at the Trafford Centre.

With drier shoes than yesterday, a brew and feet up time were essential. For Panda, bacon sizzlers and some moist and meaty dog food. For Saturday, Mossley… maybe.

Healey Dell Planning

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From Rochdale Town centre, passing the statue of Gracie Fields, the roads wound towards an abandoned asbestos factory, and here Panda and I skirted well wide of contaminated lands of Spotland. The so-called Spodden Valley asbestos controversy has scarred the 75-acre site. We didn’t go looking. Instead, we joined a sodden pathway along the River Spodden, heading toward Healey Dell.

Coupled with thoughts and a ball for throwing to make Panda chase, I hunkered down in the drizzling rain.I thought on how about in 2024, I must do something more human. Talk to the lonely. Comfort the desperate. Don’t be a knobhead. Think of others. Bless many, no matter their beliefs. Make the here and now matter. Improve tomorrow. Hug more. Push away negative people, paranoid eejits and fools. Surround yourself with passion, positivity, and vibes. Be kind. With the latter in mind, I threw the ball for Panda.

The river pathway crossed a road, with a higher path leading to a great viaduct, which I assume was once on the Rochdale to Bacup branch line. Passing over a rain-filled view, the bridge led to the old Whitworth station and the ruins of a stone rubbing mill. All soggy and damp. The pathway, more like a steam, carried on to the lower reaches of Whitworth village. Walking up Cown Park Way South, turning left on Tong End, the road led up to the Cown Reservoir.

This sprawling waterlogged body of a reservoir sat beneath crags and a wide valley. Up the valley, north-east, would be the source of the Spodden. At Fairies Chapel, with a cave carved by a waterfall and apparently a fill desk and writing area. The weather didn’t allow a push on to that location. Instead, a loop of the reservoir and a perusal of James Treacle Sanderson‘s memorial. The champion runner lived from 1837-1905 and appeared to be a local character of note.

James Treacle Sanderson dashed up and down the 440 yards of the Eastern shore. Panda and I squelched along as I chatted to various dogwalkers, and Panda sniffed a bottom or ten. A custard slice, a Christmas gift from Dad, made a good snack. Panda ate some dog treats, and we motored back to Rochdale in driving rains. On returning to Healey Dell, we looked at the viaduct from beneath, with Panda leaving a message for other dogs. The Healey Dell heritage centre had long closed, and daylight vanished. We headed into Rochdale Town to catch a Metrolink tram back to Manchester. A good ten and a half miles of wandering (16.8km) albeit on an afternoon of pouring rain.

Windy Hill & Blackstone Edge

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Turning right from Newhey Metrolink Tram station, a short ride from Manchester, Panda, and I walked beyond Bird In Hand and The Bird In The Hand signposted public houses of Newhey. We carried on until an old stone bridge and turned left off Huddersfield Road (A640) onto a cobble path parallel to Piethorne Brook. The Brook ran behind a campsite, industrial estate, and eventually a steep cobbled road swept up over Ogden Reservoir.

Ogden Reservoir, in the Piethorne Valley, sits at the lower end of a strong of water bodies. Our path climbed west and away from the giant puddles. Crossing the Brook west of Ogden Reservoir, up some steps and beyond abandoned building foundations, the path stretched upwards towards Tunshill Lane. This battered old farm track lined with rock, split off at 53.6164428, -2.0610034. Here, the road became abandoned, waterlogged, and an ideal testing point for waterproof footwear. The odd abandoned jeep carcas lay along the way, and long lost gate posts led to nowhere in particular. After a gentle ascent, Windy Hill Transmitter sat atop a top, 389 m (1,276 ft).

Banking left from the Transmitter, the Pennine Way Bridge with splayed leg carried the Pennine Way footpath towards Blackstone Edge (1549’/472m) and whisky cave. The low cloud, fierce hailstones, and torrential precipitation tested my face for feeling and hands for the ability to withstand harsh weather. Panda bounded around joyfully despite the brutal onslaught of uncomfortable weather. The gritstone boulders make for suitable shelter in thunderous winds. The Lancashire-Yorkshire border hosts great views of Manchester, although at times, dark clouds hid the growing skyscraper-lined skyline.

The Calder, Aire, and Ryburn have origins here. Each flow east to the North Sea. Similarly, Roch and Irwell have feeder streams here, destined for the Irish Sea. Having read bits afterwards, I recommend a spot of research before rambling and looking for diverse routes to the top. There are plenty of inspirations out there. I opted for the look at a Metrolink stop and study an Ordnance Survey map for interesting features, then get out and follow a map in my head. An inspection of the weather forecast may have been wise, too. The Craghoppers rain jacket I modelled did the job, though it was touch and go!

Once you’re up, you need to take in the views, snap a few shots, or, in my case, cling to a phone camera and pray the winds didn’t rip it from my hands. The hailstone became sleet and then sideways snow. Hands numbed fast. My face felt battered. An about turn and a descent, against altitude and fading light later, and Panda and I boarded an evening tram back to Manchester. Not a bad afternoon wander. 4 hours or so, all in. So, where next?

Icy Reception

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Terje Isungset Ice Quartet used a range of frozen spots on stage. Icy mist drifted from their unique instruments. Ice sheet music played out to haunting and near primaeval melodies. Nature shone through every crispy note. The leader of the pack, Terje Isungset, added more than the name to his group. With a background in jazz and drumming, Terje slid through arrangements on various nontraditional ice pieces.

Mum, Paul and I went to the Royal Northern College of Music, on Oxford Road, Manchester. Thanks to me Mam, experiencing music made from frozen water and the sound of nature has hit my radar. The idea of a winter festival inspired musician having ice and his quartet dropped in the warm autumn streets of Manchester is bizarre. From Lillehammer’s waterfall to a place sat atop the mud that probably drifted from the nearby Medlock river is a tad surreal.

Sat with family, I thought about how lucky we are in Manchester, to experience peace, multiculturalism, and music from around the globe. Chilling out to chill out music from Erling Haaland’s country on a Friday night is a good way to unwind. The music, surprisingly, lifted a headache and allowed for a chance to sit down and switch off the mind.

The following morning Jack Frost had visited Manchester. I sat on a train to Lancaster, opening a new book. Buried In The Sky tells a tale of Sherpa climbers on the K2 mountain’s deadliest day. Page one…

Manchester to Space

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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.

Good Neighbours

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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.

Clammiest Climate?

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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.

Hartshead Pike Hill.

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About 7.5 miles (12km) from Manchester, towering over Ashton-under-Lyne and Oldham, sits Hartshead Pike. A hill covered in history. Following Mossley Road, then a left turn onto Queens Road, before a left onto Nook Road, will allow walkers a two mile walk to the foot of the hill.

A left after The Lord Nelson pub gets you to Greenhurst Lane and a trail in the top left corner. Old cobbles and bricks line a path towards Knott Hill Reservoir. Many pathways branch away up to Hartshead Pike, and some pass the odd horse or ten. Scenery and rocky places to tuck into sandwiches are also present. The view back to Manchester isn’t bad either. On a clear day, like May the 13th, 2023, you could and can even see Welsh hills, Jodrell Bank Observatory, and Winter Hill. The whole of the Cheshire plain and huge chunks of Greater Manchester are visible.

The historic monument above Lily Lanes has been there since 1863. Before then another. And, before that possibly a Roman beacon. The hill is just 940 feet (290m) high. A walk down Lily Lanes, leads to Broadcarr Lane and eventually the picturesque town of Mossley. A fitting way to slide away by railway, back to Manchester, with Panda and mates to hand. The walk itself and return journey make it possible to visit the area within a long evening. Although, as the weather is sodden, at the time of writing, I’d take wellies and an umbrella now… and a torch, seeing as sunset is about to occur at 21:40ish…

Volumes.

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The sirens are screaming, the lights are on full, flashing strobes bounce off the audience beneath. The volume is loud, and the crowd is baying for more.

Two gigs in two days. Two stunning venues. Two great collectives. With my younger brother Paul, we wandered down to the modern Bridgewater Hall. The vast stage and an auditorium for 2341 people. The acoustics and still air encapsulate that the venue sits on 280 springs. Despite the name Bridgewater, it doesn’t sit on that canal. Instead, it lines a branch of the Rochdale Canal. A green garden-lined basin and destination for sound.

The Bridgewater Hall, home of the world famous Halle Orchestra, represents music, culture, and a transition to modernisation for the city of Manchester. The city was first visited by Meat Loaf on his first U.K. tour in 1978 at the Manchester Apollo seemed an apt place for the Neverland Express band to perform a celebration of Meat Loaf and singer/writer Jim Steinman.

Caleb Johnson, an American Idol product, used his rebellious warmth and personality to play lead singer. Nobody can ever replace Meat Loaf (and that’s the truth), but Caleb is a talent fit to headline. I doubt this will be his last trip to the U.K. or Manchester. As a supplement and addition to the excellent Neverland Express band who seemingly will never ever ever, ever stop rocking. The music didn’t sound like a group cashing in a last pay opportunity. Their raw and unique sound rippled eardrums and rattled bones.

John Miceli on drums has been with the band since 1989. The Long Island, New York-born drummer hasn’t let his energy slip with ferocious beats and trademark speed on show throughout Friday’s musical marathon. Good enough skills for Queen and Brian May. Alongside the inner sanctum of the band, and since 2003, Paul Crook, lead guitarist and show director, proudly worked the stage. Hailing from Plainfield, New Jersey, guitarist Crook has spun through Anthrax, Blue Oyster Cult, Marya Roxx, Queen, and filmmaker John Carpenter on his spiderman-like web of a journey. His passion and love for music are apparent throughout.

Randy Flowers and a score of more recent others completed the band, but by no means looked out of place. Sadly, as highlighted by one song, played to the audience without a vocalist, a lone microphone with a red handkerchief symbolised that one man was missing. Meat Loaf’s music will live on, especially with the American Idol winner Caleb Johnson walking amongst brooding crowds. A band truly endorsed by Meat Loaf, for fans of Meat Loaf in a world without Meat Loaf isn’t a bad thing.

The following evening saw a quick wander to Manchester’s Albert Hall. This was my first trip to the former Albert Hall and Aston Institute, which most people of a certain generation know as Brannigans. It’s been on ghost-watching shows, Neo-Baraque architecture radars, and the English Heritage list for a long time. Yet, I hadn’t visited since its rebirth in 2012 as a music venue. The former Wesleyan Mission Mission Mission Methodist Church houses a horseshoe-shaped hall, complete with seated balcony level and a wall-filling organ.

Bouncing sounds off the terracotta and stained glass were the sharp-edged Hot 8 Brass Band. This band has been through troubles. Three members died from handgun related causes, whilst recently Bennie Pete, a former leader, died as a result of Covid-19. This latest tour was held in his name. Featuring in a Spike Lee movie and on BBC Radio 6 Music has propelled their growing audience and love for jazzy blues. Covering Joy Division with Love Will Tear Us Apart doesn’t hurt your following in Manchester. This bubbly eight-piece ensemble made the watching audience sing, bounce, and cheer Saturday evening away. Hip hop, funk, pop, indie, and more genres spliced by New Orleans style gave something for everyone.

A Gem by the Etihad

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A pleasant and overlooked piece of Manchester’s diverse history. Fitted rooms, detailed and decorated with real artefacts and displays, echo the ambience of past and give our present an opportunity of reflection.

There are connections to Shakespeare, witchcraft, gardening, and nature amongst extensive grounds surrounded by the historic moat.

Throughout the visit, the historic walls, belfry, and varied facades make for good photography. The welcoming staff of volunteers are an asset to a hidden gem only a stones throw from the Etihad Stadium.

Manchester’s Metrolink is across the road at Clayton Hall stop, with the Ashton canal, and Clayton Hall in close proximity to allow more exploration. The hall is a must for historians, families, and those with a curious eye.

Visit https://claytonhall.org/ for more information.

Shipping Out.

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19th January 1863



Dear Manchester,

put your money where your mouth is, this slavery malarkey has to end. End of.

Peace and love,

Abe Lincoln



(P.S. United don’t exist as a club yet, but they’ll probably worship the devil).





The above letter is a paraphrased example. Like much of the world Manchester was wearing the latest clothing of the time around that time. Gucci? Not born. Cotton? Everywhere. The bustling smog of Manchester coated moths, as much as provided clothing to men and women alike. Transgenders were around but less represented. It was, of course, different times. Cash was made. Lots of it. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels had met in Manchester a few years earlier and released their Waterstones best seller The Condition of the Working Class in England. Jack Reacher novels were nowhere to be seen.



Turn-und Sportverein München von 1860 hadn’t even started kicking a football until 1899. Die Blauen had other sports, and all could have worn cotton garments made in Lancashire. Those kits wouldn’t have featured cotton picked by slaves in the U.S. of A. No. No way. Lancastrian workers had principles. Rather than make a quick Queen Victoria penny, cotton mill workers took a stand. Southern bastards from U.S.of A. were attacking their northern kin and union. The Confederacy could no longer count on cash from much of the north west of England. Unlike England’s Liverpool, where Confederate flags flew proudly. As some households went hungry, more than half of the mills and looms lay silent.

“I know and deeply deplore the sufferings which the working-men of Manchester, and in all Europe, are called to endure in this crisis” – letter: To the Working-men of Manchester, Abraham Lincoln.

Manchester’s Manchester Guardian opposed the blockades. It wanted to put food back on the people’s table. Yet, workers gathered in the Free Trade Hall stuck two fingers up at a proposal to drop the blockade. They backed Abraham Lincoln and his northern union. Starvation and destitution followed. A tad like how the prices of tomatoes have been on the rise after the U.K. backed the Ukraine, whilst simultaneously telling Europe to go away. As the army read the riot act, and Lincoln (the man, not the city) earned himself a future statue in Manchester, praising “”sublime Christian heroism”. Ships full of provisions were also sent, which was a relief for many in Manchester. Within two years slavery was added to the U.S. Constitution and Manchester’s mills were back pumping crap into the air, allowing families to feed themselves once again.


Abraham Lincoln’s fate wasn’t so pleasant and before he had chance to visit Manchester, he was gunned down. This process has been repeated a few times since and seems integral to U.S. culture.


So, when The Guardian, The Daily Mail, etc. manipulate headlines to flag Manchester City, and even MUFC’s crest as being a symbol of slavery, they need to dig into their research skills and work on their journalistic talents before blindly printing misinformation. Even the Manchester Evening News and MUFC’s historian had the decency to highlight the city’s backing of the abolitionist movement. The Manchester Guardian, founder, John Edward Taylor had partnerships with slavers and their companies. History is littered with profits being made over humanity. Let’s learn from it. We’re better for it. We can’t hide our history!

Man U added their ship to a badge in 1902. City used Manchester’s heraldic design from 1894 to 1960. The ship on both is that of a merchant ship to symbolise the city’s link to the Manchester Ship Canal. The Guardian’s writer connects the ship to black history in an insulting an incorrect way. History matters. Get it right. Stop trying to revise history and change a country’s shame based on a misplaced reckoning.

The Guardian writer Simon Hattenstone even suggested the bee of Manchester’s industry replaces the ship. If he had been a tad more industrial in his research and knowledge, he may have published a more compelling argument. Instead, he created a woke debate and accidentally made The Sun look like a paper of good response. And to agree with Man Utd historian J.P. Neill, I close with this quote: “’Not only did the club badges long post-date the abolition of slavery, the clubs themselves were only founded decades after slavery was ended.”

The Long Longdendale Trail

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The Longdendale Trail is 6.5 miles (10.5km) long. To walk from the beginning and back again is about 13 miles (21km). Add a waterfall trail near the sealed former railway Woodhead Tunnel entrances, and you’ve easily hit 16 miles (25.7km). Factor in prawn sandwiches, a brief sit down to feed Panda, and the best part of 11am to 6.15pm will evaporate. Just add 38000 steps.

The day’s walk began at Hadfield Station, which was weird because I was supposed to be getting off the train at Glossop. It seemed silly to wait for another train, so Panda and I set off at pace. The low gradient path rises and is ideal for cycling, horses, or dogwalking like what we were doing. The trail is part of the Hull to Liverpool Trans Pennine Trail, or national cycle route 62. Several reservoirs line the lower side, and the upper crags, swamps, and Bleakmoor.

You could even use the route as part of Cork (Ireland) to Istanbul (Turkey). The E8 European long-distance path runs past the River Etherow and the picturesque Derbyshire town of Hadfield. Hadfield, like Glossop, is about 40 minutes by train from Manchester Piccadilly. This High Peak Town sits over Bottoms Lake. That man-made reservoir forms part of the Longdendale Chain. The most upper reservoir is Woodhead Reservoir. Since around 1884, millions of gallons of water have been captured and sent to Manchester and Salford as Corporation Pop (drinking water).

Our walk also passed Arnfield, Valehouse, Rhodeswood and Torside Reservoirs. Hollingworth Reservoir has been reclaimed as a woodland. Like the woodland, the whole of the Longdendale valley is scenic and green. Tintwistle and a selection of hamlets make for great places to admire the views. UFOs and strange lights have been noted. The closest we came to this were a few deer on the dusky walk back. That and headlights over the valley on the Woodhead Pass (A628) as the walk reached the final act. Panda earned his ham on the bone treat. I’ll have Coco Pops.

The treat at the far end from Hadfield was a wander up Middle Black Clough to a spread of waterfalls and steep green vales. The walk alone was great. The extra trail at the end was excellent. It was a real challenge for the four legs of Panda and an opportunity to do some rock-scrambling. All in all, it was a lovely day out. So, where next?

Merry Christmas 2022.

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The first Christmas I’ve had in Britain since 2013 is finally here. What a year to choose! As gas prices soar, sprouts finally have their day. As a shortage of cauliflower hit our local Lidl, we moved to brocoli (which is better all round) and trimmed it all off nicely. That’s Christmas Dinner on Christmas Eve done. Having ate with Dad and Shaun, I’ll spend tomorrow at my Mam’s with Mum and Paul and Paul, and Beardie and Panda.

In fact, I think that I spent Christmas 2013 in Cornwall, so 2012 was the last Christmas I had in Manchester. Today, I met my good friend P.M. Brahma and went for lunch at the fantastic Northern Soul Grilled Cheese in Manchester, then a coffee in Afflecks and some dessert afterwards. Later, Panda, Blue, Shaun and I walked Clayton Vale. The Eve of Christmas has been quite relaxed. My thoughts have been elsewhere, but I am trying my best to enjoy it here.

On reflection, seeing the resting place of a deceased homeless person, hearing of a 19 year old lad hanging himself and the unfortunate death of a pedestrian at the hands of a Police car, could and should put many things in perspective. I’m not a huge fan of Christmas and its pressures on people. Please do stay safe. Please talk. Give help, where you can. Don’t be a knobhead. The world needs more light and love.

Dad has been good, treating us all at Christmas. Yesterday, on Christmas Eve’s Eve, I visited Aunty Chris and Uncle Ed. It’s always a pleasure to see family. A few brews and a wander ended up with getting back to walk Panda down Clayton Vale. Why not?! A good way to relax in the freezing winter mist. Panda was happy. That’s the main thing. I’m excited for Christmas at Mam’s house and switching off a bit. If my mind allows me to switch off. Much to say and do.

All the best for Christmas and New Year. Hope it’s a good one, no matter how hard it seems. Peace and love. 🐝

Step back: III.

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The taxi dropped Panda and I at the Rotterdam Europoort ferry terminal. A pleasant taxi ride with a talkative and kind driver had ended the worry of how to cart my 30kg and 10kg backpack, whilst ensuring Panda was safe on a leash. We arrived with ample time to allow Panda to water every bush and stone on the way to the terminal building. I was certain Panda appreciated this task.

Panda and I sat on a stone bench looking at the colossal MS Pride of Hull. Ferrying to or from Hull and Rotterdam daily, this Bahamas-registered tax-dodging haven of P&O ferries, has capacity to take 1360 people and about 250 vehicles. Christened by Cherie Blair, wife of Tony, this Italian-built ship has been active about 22 years. The WiFi didn’t work. Panda and I boarded and I checked him into the below-deck kennels. He wasn’t too pleased with me. Panda even snubbed a biscuit at the boarding reception.

So, once again, Panda was intentionally abandoned. He was left in his extra large kennel, neighboured by a zoo of dogs, each with its distinct yap and growl. Panda had had one heck of a journey. I felt immense pride in him and reminded myself to ensure he gets a jolly good walk in England, as soon as we were back and settled. Up the decks I climbed and went to my room for a sit down, after getting a new key card…

The Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company Ferries, or P&O Ferries had shamefully recently sacked all 800 staff across many ships. Whilst their new agency staff from the Philippines were friendly and warm, the company itself would not have been my choice, but for a lack of options. This was the only route. As was the on board cinema movie choice, Top Gun 2: Maverick. A flight movie on a ship isn’t a bad experience. A pint of Cornish Doom Bar, and a cider was also needed. An early night rounded off a simple sailing evening.

Waking in the box cabin, I didn’t know the sun had arisen, nor that land had been sighted. I quickly made myself ready and went to the deck’s Sun Lounger area. That name wouldn’t pass the trade descriptions act. Going outside I witnessed the grey openings of the river Humber and a British coastline that surely the Vikings must have thought ad being a bit off-putting. “Hey Knut, can’t be much worth seeing this way. How about we swing south for the Mediterranean?” Rhubarb wouldn’t have been introduced at that period of history. The onboard breakfast options were equally void of colour.

Eventually the ship docked and like everything British in the 21st century, something didn’t work. The offloading was to be by one route and not the usual walkway off. For foot passengers, had to wait for all vehicles to disembark. Panda, now retrieved and happy-go-lucky, boarded a bus alongside many foot passengers and I. The bus from the car deck went up a ramp, turned right, barely travelled a hundred yards and then emptied its belly of people and goods… with a patient cats and dogs. Her Majesty’s border forces checked Panda’s papers and off we went, onto British soil, or tarmacadam to be exact.

A tenner of a taxi ride later into the town station, and Hull witnessed bombings comparative to the 1940s Luftwaffe passing overhead. Panda deployed several loads right on the doorstep of the railway station main entrance. When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. Panda went. His bowel movements had been limited since Rotterdam on the previous afternoon, so he did very well to save it for later. Besides, the train we were booked on, was cancelled. So, why not relax, and let it go.

Having negotiated the chilly North Sea by ship, two trains would guide Panda and I through Yorkshire and over the Pennines to Manchester. All aboard.

Refresh.

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Craning my neck: stooped harshly.

Deep inside the bowl: placed hands partially.

Turning the pressure to flow: seeking coolness.

In my Chinese house: undrinkable cruelness.

The water here: causing neshness.

Flowing slow water in Manchester: enhanced freshness.

Upstairs at the bathroom: Broom Avenue childhood.

Drinking fast to slow: glug, glug, should, would and could.

Cooler than air, fresher than fair: my share.

After teeth, before sleep: my answered prayer.

I miss that tap: we were raised together.

The tap of life: water from Lake District weather.

Fuck You COVID-19!

oyster28catcher (JRA)1 Comment

Bad morning. Bad evening. Bad day.

Actually, I want to greet you all positively and wish peace and love. It just doesn’t seem suitable. The title of the writing seems like bad language, but it reflects my mood for an approaching date. My Mum always said that words like fuck, bastard and arse, amongst the plethora of curses are just ways of expression. I agree. When we say that piss and twat are bad words, we empower their misuse. Some words like cunt are extremely terrible. I try my best to avoid usage of all these fecking shite words but some days they are just so appropriate.

I am writing this on September the 4th. It’s fast dawned on me that September the 12th is on the horizon. I want to vomit out the words that are rattling around my head now.

September the 12th hasn’t always represented a bad day in September, and for many there have been far worse. For me personally, it isn’t the absolute disaster of a day. Far from it. I’m sure it’ll be a pleasant and wonderful day indeed. It just marks an unwanted anniversary. It represents exactly two years since I left Mancunian soil for China (via Hong Kong, Special Administrative Region etc). The day after the Vincent Kompany testimonial, Uncle Ed delivered me to a flight, alongside my friend Maria and a shedload of luggage. Who’d have thought that the world would go tits up?!

The summers of 2015 to 2019 have all been enjoyed in Great Britain. In fact 2014, marked the longest I’ve gone without summer at home. It being shortly after the February of moving to China. 2020 and 2021 have not given chance to see family or friends back on British soil. Nor has there been a chance to meet half way or for overseas visitors to call by.

I understand that for many, it is the same. For a many people, losses and tragedies have been their visitors over this pandemic of annoyance and continued uncertainty. It’s the uncertainty that this winter or next summer, mobility to see family and my best friend may or not be possible. I’m optimistic but these days it is better to be realistic as more sensible. Right?

Concluding the writing should not involve a message of peace and love. I’ll always wish you all, friend or for, family, flamingo doing flamenco or fungi, peace and love. Today’s scribbling will partake in a list of fuck you messages. It’s only appropriate.

Fuck you to COVID-19. With all due respect to viruses and diseases globally, you’ve really got on many people’s nerves. Enough is enough.

Fuck you to the origins of COVID-19. Tut. Tut.

Fuck you to the conspiring conspiracies. Don’t believe the truth?

Fuck you to the bullies of Wuhan. It’s a city. It has people. People have feelings. Spread love, not hate.

Fuck you Donald Trump. Profits high? Definitely.

Fuck you to those who divide. See above.

Fuck you to those who profited at the detriment of others during this hugely annoying era. There’s a huge increase in billionaires and millionaires, and wealth shares.

Fuck you Man Utd. Always appropriate.

Fuck you to all nations who have politicised this pandemic. You know who you are.

Fuck you those who failed to act and swept away those who wished to speak. Also applicable to the Afghanistan situation. And Rwanda. And countless other events, mostly involving Team America: World Police.

Fuck you to the silencers of the voices. Opinions may be like arseholes, in that everyone has one, but words are powerful and beautiful things. As Mel Gibson said, in Braveheart, “FREEDOM!” before he got in trouble. Terms and conditions apply.

Fuck you Boris Johnson, the budget Donald Trump. Sniveling little inhumane turd of a shriveled up scrotum of a man.

Fuck you to the dismantling parties of the NHS (a bonafide British treasure). See above.

Fuck you to the sneaky laws and regulations that exploited the pandemic conditions. UK included. The RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institution) could be fined for saving the lives of migrants? Those laws as are fitting for the 1930’s Nazi Party.

Fuck you to anyone who doesn’t believe this pandemic is real and that COVID-19 is a lie. Wake up! Tackle it. Don’t deny it.

Of course, using the phrase fuck you is negative and wrong. I rescind all of the above. Stay positive.

Until the next time, when I see family and friends, peace and love!

John

“What’s stopping you?”

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你好！Nihao! Hello!

No drunken state of mind was needed. No spontaneity other than the heart and mind being aligned at a state of euphoric relaxation. A new experience was had. Better late, than never.

Dali was a place I felt relaxed enough to make enquiries about one of my ambitions. Many people call ambitions a bucket list these days. I haven’t really listed the things I want to do, the places I want to see and the experiences I must have, for two reasons. Firstly, why list? I’ll contradict myself immediately. I love a list and a plan (at times). Other times call for spontaneity. Secondly, things change. We adapt. We live. We learn. We fight problems like COVID-19, negativity, alarm clocks and mosquitoes.

So, on my, it’s in my head bucket list, I wanted a bee tattoo. Following the atrocities of the Manchester Arena bombing, the bee has undergone a resurgence in its representation of God’s favourite city: Manchester. I say God’s favourite city, but I mean the Gods of rain. All of them. It’s been about two years since I experienced Manchester in the drizzle. And Vimto fruit cordial on ready availability.

So, Echo recommended a friend called Lin for just black or blue tattoos. I wasn’t so keen. It’s a commitment. Bees are colourful after all. A further friend, Zhao, was put in touch and suddenly the bee idea was gaining momentum. Not only that but I wanted to incorporate bats, to symbolise flight and misunderstood mammals. Then, I had to add an aubergine, because QiéZi (茄子) has helped me relax and rediscover myself. Do you believe in resurrection? Then I wanted some lyrics. I toyed between the music of Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise. Bring me sunshine? Echo offered to draw the tattoo too. I declined. Maybe the next one…

I settled on The Levellers and their track One Way, which has been there so long and I completely agree with the lyrics, “There’s only one way of life and that’s your own.” Perhaps I owe royalties now. I’ll donate to their chosen charity or cause. It needed a font. So, Helveticamazing was selected. It’s a very Mancunian font. At this time, the bee evolved into the colours of Manchester City. Well, the sky blue aspect anyway. Sadly, Zhao didn’t have purple so the eggplant needs finishing another day. Or, it could stay white, like white eggplants. Why not?

Being on a tattoo bed face down, having a pinching, scratching and sometimes sharp sensation was oddly relaxing. At first I was experiencing discomfort but soon found myself lost in John Le Carre’s The Mission Song. With QiéZi and Xiao Jie looking on, at times, I must have napped because they disappeared then reappeared later.

Zhao spent around two and a half hours defacing my skin. QiéZi has two artworks that each required ten hours of work. One on her thigh is a huge colourful fish imagery. Another is the Greek Olympian Poseidon. And her feet, arms, back all have interesting smaller complimentary stories. If a twenty-five year old can be so relaxed and patient, to complete that much fine artwork, so can I. My decision had been made years ago to get a tattoo. The actions needed to be in the right place, at the right time and accompanied by the right people.

再见！Zaijian! Goodbye!

And here it is…

Zhao waves her magic wand
Buzzing.

I wanna follow you

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I wanna follow you.

I wanna follow you.

I wanna follow you, wherever you go, whenever you know.

I wanna follow you.

I wanna go there. I wanna be there. I wanna feel there.

I wanna follow you.

I wanna show myself to you. I wanna be completely true.

I wanna follow you.

I wanna open up and let myself go. I wanna give you all my show.

I wanna follow you.

I wanna find the path together. I wanna ride through stormy weather.

I wanna follow with your shadow. I wanna run with you in a meadow.

I wanna follow you.

I wanna go wherever you may go. I wanna see ourselves grow.

I wanna follow you.

I wanna follow. I wanna follow. I wanna follow you.

I wanna follow you.

I wanna.

I want you.

I will follow you.

Inspired by the opening music and poetry of ARGH KiD‘s Never Drinking Again. ARGH KiD is the official poet for the NSPCC, UEFA and Man Utd.

What would it mean to you?

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No history? 1880. 1894. 1904. 1934. 1937. 1956. 1968. 1969. Continental and domestic in 1970. 1976. Every year in between glued together with people, vibes, life and community. Deep shades of sky blue and glorious ambition, turmoil, truths, trouble, love and hope. This City has history as deep wider than the Manchester Ship Canal and deeper than the soils that Manchester sits on.

1981: a replay on a Thursday. I wasn’t born. I heard something happened. I kept hearing it again and again and again.

Growing up on European night stories and tales. The folklore. The tales. The late nights turned tables. Not going, not knowing and City not showing. Different times, fine lines.

Railway specials, walks from The Clarence, Kippax gone, homeless and nomadic, back to the new Kippax. Relax. Imre ‘Banana’ and blowing up as City implode and reload.

“Swales out!” “Lee out!” Ball in. Ball out. Coppell copped out. Frank Clark went to the park. Asa Hartford changing seats like underwear. Brian Horton left via Gorton. Book, Reid, Neal and Machin. Howard Kendall, any good? The managerial machine doesn’t need oiling – it needs scrapping!

Uwe! Uwe! Uwe!

Wondering how much sunblock Lomas applied as Kinky cried? Seeing torment arrive on a tide.

5-1 in our cup final, and Fergie’s baptism, and then schism after schism in stands of scaffolding. Walking back along the A56 year after year, without cheer.

Being unable to get to York away, unlike the other ten million Blues, because that day, work meant I couldn’t see us lose. The Blues. The blues. Boos. Chews and choose.

Lincoln, Halifax, Shrewsbury, Bury and Stockport, where are you now? We were with you and now we’re not. We’re not really here. Thanks for keeping us company. No hard feelings, we’re just like you, but we’re not. You know what we mean. Macclesfield, cheers.

Listening on the wireless to the boom of Fred Eyre, on Piccadilly Gold. Not always because sometimes City were shoved aside for that Red lot over in Trafford. We couldn’t always go. Tickets away not available on the day.

Get that Dickov! Feed the Goat. Oooohhh it’s Nicky Weaver… Andy, Andy Mor-ri-son… Super Kevin Horlock. Edghill edged and Pollock pledged. Terry Cooke, he’s not red! Surely not! Jobson, Howey, Wiekens, Whitley brothers,

Wembley! Wembley! Wembley! Nineteen ninety nine was ever so fine. The divine stood in line and created a path headed towards a goldmine. The crocus. Dickov! Slide, slide, slide away… Tears! Tears of relief! Tears of joy! A dream reborn! CITY ARE GOING UP!

Ipswich Town in the rain? What a pain! Do it all again? Why not! Give it our best shot! Gene Kelly? Inside stand toilets? SMELLY.

Ewood Park without dark, what an hark and a lark as City are back, with some clack.

Bernarbia and Berkovic! Is this as good as it gets?

Gary Neville is a blue! The Goat? Feasted. Fed. Full.

Watching Viduka, Owen, Fowler, and every Tom, Dick and Harry pick their spots and find it. Again and again.

Seeing Keane being mean, standing over Haaland imposing his ridiculous square bean.

Keegan attacked and attacked and then got got side tracked.

Pearce’s lofted penalty hit a carcass of the Sputnik or some such other floating tin.

Goodbye Maine Road. Fireworks and sounds faded. A new concrete bowl provided.

#SAVEOURSVEN

Welcome Barcelona and Total Network Solutions… Is this the promised land?

Pearce off. How many goals in one season at home?! A ‘keeper up front?! Don’t pull that stunt! Wonky toes and European woes.

‘The Moston Menace’, SWP, BWP, tiny, tiny Willow Flood was good, and Ireland is Superman. Nedum can head ’em. Michael Johnson was on some. The golden generation we were told. Same old, same old?

Things good shook up. New owners. New investment. New opportunity. New ambitions. WE’VE GOT ROBINHO! WE’VE GOT ROBINHO! WE’VE GOT ROBINHO!

And then 2011 arrived. Things changed. But still they laughed. Still, we held our pride. Welcome to Manchester F.A. Cup. It wasn’t long before a young man name Sergio arrived… And an academy beyond our wildest imagination… and ever-growing ambitions…

But, now we’re here, watching super City from Maine Road, in Shenzhen on a television screen bigger than the North Stand at Maine Road. In China, fans are growing. Porto game showing. The Champions League Final. Whatever the weather, we’re not fair-weather. We’re not really here.