mightaswell.

The Fresh Queen of West Diddy

Now this is a story all about how
My life got flipped, turned upside down
I’d like to take a minute flowin fresher than Fiddy*
I’ll tell you how I became the queen of a place called West Diddy

In Southwest Germany, born and raised
on the school bench where I spent most of my days,
doing my homework, mathematics all cool
And all coding some websites outside of the school
When that one massive uni that looked pretty good
Made me an offer I could not refuse
I sent them one little letter and my mum was proud
She said ‘have a great time in Manchester, now get out!’

I whistled for a black cab and left in a hurry
The licenceplate said ‘MCR’ and it smelled of curry
If anything I could say this town was quite gritty
But I thought mightaswell stay here, welcome to West Diddy!

I pulled up to a house that was made from red bricks
And yelled to the cabby ‘I’m sorry, no tips’
Looked at my kingdom and it was rather pretty
So I settled my throne as the queen of West Diddy

I couldn’t resist. It was a particularly long bus journey. People of West Didsbury forgive me. You may now officially declare the end of the blogging world as we know it.

* That’s cool speak for Fifty Cent. Yo.

[Photo by blitzi]

I’ve been babbling enough in the past couple of weeks, so I’ll give you a break with a few lovely photos from my daytrip to Hebden Bridge, a small town in West Yorkshire – time for a photo post! While everyone was gushing how quaint and lovely the town is, I was more impressed by the surrounding landscape; even the train journey from Manchester into the hills is fantastic!

I also discovered one of my now favourite pubs, the Fox and Goose – a quirky* little pub right at the end of the town, with an open fireplace and hundreds of beer clips all over the ceiling.

Good place.

Why hello!

Hebden Bridge from above.

Trees n stuff.

Hills! Nature! Fresh Air! Had to tweet this picture straight away.

Green thing growing out of a wooden pole.

We met a painter on the path!

Stone circles. Possibly ancient. Probably not.

Yorkshire Soap Co. – I couldn’t resist and had to buy cupcake shaped strawberry scented bubble bath.

* Interior, barman and patrons alike.

Going out on bonfire night had always felt way too dangerous for me – the prospect of getting shot at with fireworks or chased by an angry mob with torches didn’t seem all that appealing. This year however, I was joined by fellow new Mancunian Paul (the gentleman who brings you Manchester Daily Photo) to watch fireworks, drink mulled wine and dodge some rockets.

The arrival at Platt Fields Park was somewhat overwhelming (Flood lights and police at the entrance! Thousands of people! Bright lights and noisy sounds from the funfair! Mud everywhere!), but we soon managed to find a nice place to watch the fireworks display which started out mildly disappointing, but grew steadily into an extravaganza of pyrotechnical awesomeness.

The music choice for the fireworks quickly convinced us that someone must have typed “fire” in their iTunes and hit shuffle. A trashtastic Eurodisco song with a lady moaning about her being a pyromaniac was followed by The Prodigy’s Firestarter – and I was convinced I could see some scallies raving their trainers off to those “bangin choonz” somewhere in the muddy puddles of Platt Fields.

Having blown up half of Manchester city council’s annual budget, the celebrations for Platt Fields  Park’s 100 year anniversary continued with Manchester’s own Poet laureate Mike “God is a Mancunian” Garry reciting “The Gift”, a lovely poem for the park – an effort that was completely lost in the murmur* of thousands of visitors. This was followed by a Mancunian cowboy-country-folk song praising the park with the chorus “Platt Fields, Platt Fields, you make me feel so true”, accompanied by a beatboxer. Yes, a beatboxer. A beatboxer who, at some point, broke into a five minute freestyle grime beat with the singer aimlessly yodelling “Platt Fiiieeeiiieeeellldsss”, turning it into a 15 minute monster of a birthday song. That was the point when, once again, I simply surrendered to the craziness of Manchester.

Playing for time while the Chinese lanterns where being lit, the speaker then began to thank supporters of the park and the festivities – one by one, a never ending list of names, which prompted the gentleman standing next to me to shout “Shut up” at the stage. If there’s one thing in Manchester that you can rely on, it is this: the rowdy mob never disappoints.

* Shouting.

[Lovely fireworks photos by Paul Capewell at Manchester Daily Photo]