Mrs RM didn’t recognise Frank Sidebottom. She’s not a TRUE Manc like what I am.
Bet she didn’t recognise this bloke, either, a headliner at Simon’s upcoming Blackpool “punk” festival with his disco covers of Joy Division classics.
After a night of curry in Lymm we were back in Manchester for another of those annoying City home games on the Saturday. If only City played their home games in Stromness.
Parked up near the Industrial Museum,
young Matt called us while we were inspecting old cars and arranged to meet us at My Thai place in the Northern Quarter. Why don’t our children leave us alone ?* My Thai is as good as Thai food gets, Wrestlers apart.
After a routine demolition of Watford, in which I’m afraid to say I liberally swore at a group of blokes who ALWAYS turn up late, leave early, slag off Sterling and go to the loo 8 times, I had time for a post-match pint in the cask where I first met BRAPA.
A venue of legends, certainly.
Unfortunately, the 3 blokes who’d left the Etihad on 80 minutes were there, drinking German lager and I felt a bit self-conscious.
But not for long. A pint of Wylam Eek (eek indeed, it was £5.10), a soundtrack of angsty dub, and a crowd of City fans and Hi-Vis. It’s (still) great.
Lacings never lie.
I know not everyone likes the relentless development of central Manchester, but frankly they can stay in the suburbs. I love tall buildings, and crisp cask, and greasy chips.