mightaswell.

Aah, yes, public transport. My favourite topic to talk about in Manchester, always worth a good rant. In this case however, it’s less of a rant and more of an astonished and incredulous account of the most bizarre bus adventure I have had in the two years living in this city. It was so bizarre, I even created a new “Bizarre” category for it.*

And it came to pass in those days that a festival was taking place on the green pastures of Platt Field’s park, and the lone traveller (that’s me! Hello!) embarked on a long and eventful journey from Southern Suburbia into the heart of the Sacred City…

Up until Fallowfield, people getting on the bus were the usual Saturday night crowd, i.e.  hordes of loud and drunk students. We were joined by a group of families who had just come from the Lacrosse tournament where Canada had been beaten by the US. Due to unforeseen circumstances (“What do you mean? Thousands of people at a festival at Platt Field’s could cause a traffic chaos? Naahhh…”) the bus got stuck at a traffic light just at the far end of the park. And this is where it all started…

“Mate, I’m not being funny, but you’ve got the biggest car in the road. Just drive!” was the first advice the slightly intoxicated gentleman in one of the front seats gave the bus driver, only seconds before the young men in the car next to us started blowing a vuvuzela. The gentleman on the bus decided to answer this call for his attention by climbing on the bus seat, pulling down his trousers and exposing his pale backside to our neighbours, gently rubbing it on the bus windows. The bus driver, surrendering himself to the fate of having to drive the Wilmslow Road route on a Saturday night, simply acknowledged this stunt with a gentle laugh, silently awaiting the end of his shift. As we had been stuck at the traffic light for almost ten minutes, the gentleman, now wearing his trousers in the right place and obviously having filled his bladder with  several pints of liquids before the bus journey, asked the bus driver if he could open the doors for him to jump out and relieve himself in the wild.

On returning to the bus, he engaged in a conversation with the girls on the seats behind him (one of whom was wearing slippers because “it hurt. And… it hurt!”), only to rise again after a few minutes and announce: “Ladies and gentlemen! It’s Melissa’s birthday today! While we’re stuck on the bus, we might as well sing happy birthday for her!”, which lead to the entire bus, first cautiously, then enthusiastically singing a birthday song for our fellow traveller.

10 minutes and 10 metres later, the bus opened the door for another wee break. This time however, the gentlemen returning to the bus and running upstairs to the top deck did not resemble the two travellers that had been with us all night. “Oh GREAT we’re getting burgled on the bus because that guy had to go for a wee!” was my first thought. Turned out that, as the two chaps were kind enough to explain on exiting the bus, the drunk students on the top deck had been “shouting abuse” at them and they wanted to give them a slap on the wrist – fortunately, only figuratively. The worried bus driver was kind enough to ask the gentlemen who were returning from their toilet trip to check upstairs if “everything was ok up there”. They descended from the top deck with an “everything ok” and two cans of beer in their hands, which they happily opened and consumed straight away.

By the time we had passed the traffic jam on the infamous curry mile, everyone on the bus was either drunk and engaging in lively conversation / singing / further drinking, or mildly shocked and silently shaking their heads.

As we approached the final bus stop, a group of students coming downstairs quickly identified the families in the back as supporters of the Canadian Lacrosse team, which lead one of them to a weak attempt at consoling the Canadians for their loss by praising their magnificent country. And so the Finglands 41 service pulled into Piccadilly Gardens, accompanied by dozens of students singing the Canadian national anthem. The bus stopped. The doors opened. It was all over.

* Things like that get me very excited sometimes. The excitement lasts for about 7 seconds until I realise that I’m a sad, sad geek.

[Photo: "Iwouldstay"]

One of the reasons why I actually like Manchester (sometimes) is its hyperactive arts and culture sector that seems to be just crazy about organising festivals. There’s the Jazz Festival, Future Everything, the Literature Festival, 24:7 Theatre Festival, the Family Friendly Film Festival, the Didsbury Art Festival, Manchester International Festival, the Comedy Festival, Food and Drink Festival, the WestFest, FuturEverything… this city really is ONE BIG FESTIVAL!

Well, that’s  certainly fine by me. I’m happy to stop bitching about the depressing weather, lousy public transport, scary crime rate and social inequality in order to engage in a bit of culture, especially when paired with food.

After days of torrential rain in Manchester, I awoke this Saturday morning to find the sun burning down onto my face, convincing me to finally make a serious attempt at visiting the Didsbury Food Market. Located just around the library, this teeny tiny gathering of stalls may not be big enough to be called a “market”*, yet it managed to keep me busy for quite a while. And by that I mean “stuff my face and succumb to impulse buys”, spending a small fortune on: a cheese & vegetable tart from “Silver Apples”, beautiful macaroons from the “English Rose Bakery”, a home made Battenberg from the lady with the pretty apron, two necklaces from “In All Her Finery”, and a cupcake from “And the dish ran away with the spoon”, who are just about to open a shop in West Didsbury. What a lovely way to start a Saturday morning. A few more regional fruit & veg stalls, and I’m happy to throw all my money at local businesses there every week!

Moving on into the city centre, I enjoyed a little more of the rare sunshine at the Mad Scientists’ Tea Party, a trailblazer event for the Manchester Science Festival (another festival!). Exploding plastic tubs, lava lamps made from oil and vitamin tablets, rainbow coloured cupcakes, giant soap bubbles and an incredibly fascinating camera obscura in a yurt were keeping children and parents entertained.

What I found even more interesting than the activities however was the eclectic mix of people at the Tea Party – families with their Saturday shopping, teenage mums, emo kids not willing to give up their usual spot at Cathedral Gardens, and two tramps who got seriously excited about the explosions and kept sticking vitamin tablets in film containers. Until recently, I would have sniffed at this and left quickly, but I suppose I’ve been in this city long enough now to understand: this is Manchester. It’s just… a bit different. Nothing wrong with it, eh.

* See, I’m from a very rural area. Some of the boys I knew would sometimes drive to school with a tractor. We do proper markets. It takes all day to get from one end to another. There’s dozens of stalls selling organic hand grown happy fruit and vegetables, artisan cheese from happy cows, tons of uhm… happy meat, Turkish and Greek deli stalls, hundreds of different types of bread loaves, rolls, cakes and sweets. No need to explain why I turn into a little fatty every time I visit my family at home.

Despite it being Bugged month and me having vowed to give my newly developed love for wearing noise-cancelling headphones on public transport a break, I still feel that it is the music that makes traveling through Manchester attractive, interesting and sometimes simply bearable.

I noticed how dreaded journeys like getting the Magic Bus (see previous post) in the morning or walking down Market Street on a busy* Saturday can almost turn into a pleasure when accompanied by the right music. It makes me relaxed, helps me bury my head deeper in my book despite the hoards of noisy students getting on in Fallowfield, makes me feel cooler than everyone else, parading down the street with my headphones, throwing presumptuous and omniscient smiles at people who don’t see me anyway while blasting out and bopping my head to whatever’s coming onto my little black iPod (5 years old and still going strong, bless!), unknown pleasures that only I can hear.

In the prospect of getting sued, here’s my playlist with ten songs for some of the situations you may encounter in the streets of our rainy city – ready to download as a handy zip file. Let me know if you like it. Let me know if you don’t.

Send me an email if you would like a copy of this :)

1. American Analog Set – Punk as fuck
   Hangover music. Not too loud. Don’t ever remove from player. Good for getting on the bus around midday when it’s sunny and fairly quiet, won’t help covering the noise of loud mobile phone conversations in the seat behind you. Which will happen inevitably.
2. Das Racist – Shorty said (Gordon Voidwell remix)
   Best soundtrack for busy Saturday afternoons on Market Street. Makes you think you’re down with the kids. Like, totally. Turn it up loud enough to drown out the guy with the creepy duck whistles and the crazy Christians shouting “JESUS CHRIST” at your face.
3. An Horse – Horizons
   Good for the rare sunny days in Manchester. Leave the house and walk to the bus stop, wearing large sunglasses that look ridiculous. Feel bittersweet, but happy, but annoyed, but ah well never mind. Oh yes I’m doing so well.
4. Talking Heads – Once in a lifetime
   Listen to nothing but Talking Heads for weeks. Go to Smile at the Star & Garter and get stupidly drunk on vodka while sitting downstairs and waiting for the first people to start dancing. Realise that you’re dancing on the benches two hours later. Ask yourself: how did I get here? Drop your drink on someone. Apologise. Drop your drink on someone, again. Fall down the stairs, blow a kiss at the bouncer, get nearly run over crossing the road to Piccadilly station and fall into a taxi. Same as it ever was.
5. Roisin Murphy – Ramalama (bang bang)
   Walk down Burton Road through West Didsbury on a Saturday night. Witness the drunken messes staggering home and sing “Ramalama bang bang flash bang bing bang bing bong ding dong dum dum du dum” to yourself. Imagine you are in a Disney musical and do a little dance. Hope that no one has noticed you.
6. Gui Boratto – Terminal
   Try to break your own personal record walking from West Didsbury to Fallowfield. Convince your house mate that it is absolutely possible to get to the post depot in 20 minutes. Take a deep breath and engage in 17 minutes of power walking while listening to Brazilian techno. Find a huge queue at the post depot. Swear.
7. The Smiths – Half a person
   Coming from Piccadilly Gardens, walk down Portland Street on a very gray and rainy Saturday, towards the Temple pub and down the stairs. See your friend through the window at the bottom of the stairs, wave and take off your headphones. Wonder how you’ll ever manage to dry your soaked shoes.
8. Tears for Fears – Head over heels
   Good soundtrack for a bus journey down the curry mile when it’s dark. Watch the people walking down the road outside the takeaways and curry houses. See the neon lights’ reflections in the puddles on the pavement and the rain drops on the window. Think about how 80s synth pop and neon go together so well.
9. The Shins – Kissing the lipless
   Get off outside the Sainsbury’s in Fallowfield. Walk into the shop. Try and time your movements with the music. Feel sublime if you manage to pick up your bread the second the music gets louder. Block the way in the isle with the crackers, the one that has a pillar in the middle, and don’t hear people repeatedly saying ‘excuse me’. Notice them. Feel guilty. Turn the music down.
10. Japandroids – Wet hair
    Walk home from Fuel after a far too boozy Tuesday night. Feel the warmth of the pavement that has been heated up by the sun. Remember the crazy hot summer in your home town. Think of your friends. Feel a bit upset. Hope that everything gets back to normal soon. Cross your fingers.

* nightmarish