retiredmartin

July 2026. Manchester.

I drove into Manchester on the hottest day of the year to help him clear his Piccadilly flat (mainly a guitar and early editions of Kerrang!), a month after his move to the Promised Land of Stockport.

I could have parked opposite the flat at CitiPark, but saved £7 by stopping on Dale Street opposite the Jolly Angler, and £7 almost buys you a pint of Guinness in central Manchester.

Matt moved up north from Waterbeach the same year I was in the Angler chatting to Florian the Portuguese Psychologist (top), a man who appreciated a Proper Pub.

I’ve never been that sentimental about closed pubs, the way some folk mourn the loss of “beloved” (ugh) places they visit at Christmas, and in truth I only really appreciated the Angler’s charms too late.

Half a decade after closure it’s just a place to stick up your poster for heritage bands,

while across the road lies Diecast’s event space, described on Untappd as “a bit Milton Keynes“.

The Jolly Angler was never “a bit Milton Keynes“, and neither is my early tea stop, which is the curry equivalent of Hyde’s lost wonder.

The long-standing owners of Cafe Marhaba are struggling in the heat, which I make worse by ordering a steaming Rice & Three,

Lamb Karahi, Spinach and chicken something, I think, though I was past caring.

Not quite as spectacular as Bradford’s International, but it’s a slice of proper Manc culture you’d be well advised to get to while you can. Not everything in Manchester is eternal.