29th December 2019
“How you feeling ?” said Mrs RM, on Sunday Morning.
“Fine“. I wasn’t.
Actually, “How you feeling ?” means “get me a coffee, now“.
At least the Premier Inn in Fox Street is quiet. One of the reasons for staying in central Preston was to see if gets “lively” at night. Despite the two nightclubs a few yards away, all I heard was a loud scream at about 3am. I think the Green Devil had run out.
Later that day I was meeting James, who’d been staying with Matt in Salford Quay, to watch City v Sheffield United and applaud the introduction of VAR to our national sport.
Time for a leisurely breakfast in Preston’s Brucciani’s, one of those places you take for granted and find yourself in Café Nero or Spoons by mistake.
It looks posher than it is, bit like Bewley’s in Dublin I guess. You feel you’re somewhere grand till you realise you order at the bar and collect your own cutlery.
Lovely eggs benedict, hot black coffee.
But most striking was the wall of honour, “Mr Manchester” standing with Bill above John and Billy. Not sure where BRAPA was.
Anthony H Wilson is rarely far from my mind when I visit Manchester, and I was a little tearful when I learnt Matt was working opposite the Little Gem where Tony’s funeral took place.
Just like him, Manchester is constantly evolving, which is as much its appeal as its problem for some.
I’d arranged to meet the lads for a pre-match meal at Bundobust, and on the 3rd time of trying (two Trans Pennines cancelled) I caught the train to Deansgate, yards from Tony Wilson Place.
I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but there’s some great pubs on Portland Street.
Bundobust isn’t a great pub, and if you’re doing an alcohol-free day it’s a bit difficult ignoring their beer board. Mrs RM would have insisted on a pint of the Cascade.
Tony Wilson would be proud to see his city striding forward 12 years after his tragically early death, if a bit miffed by the pace with which City have overtaken United.