Fyodor Dostoevsky

An end to my illness meant an end to my exile and so, today, I returned to Manchester after seven long days away. A week hardly sounds like much, but when I think about it, it's forever. The city centre moves on fast, while Salford travels at a snail's pace.

After alighting from my bus on Deansgate, I could hear the welcome sound of drumming from three streets down. This is Manchester on a bright happy Saturday. A girl dordled in front of me, forcing me to walk in the road to get round her. I nearly cursed with anger. I missed the place so much.

The trawling of the day was only enjoyed by two of us; we sat in All Saints Park watching the sky rapidly dim and then, when the clouds began to burst, we made our way over to Afflecks and looked at pretty things that we could neither afford nor look fashionable in.

Afflecks is full of strange beings from an alternate reality. They rarely break through in to this world; only do they appear to exist inside the walls of Afflecks or, with their spirits projected on to the grass outside of Urbis. Other than that, they occupy a small area of the internet, where they speak in their own arcane language. Some examples being; "lol", "lolz0rz", "rofl" and "omFgzzz!!?!". It is utterly indecipherable to regular human beings.

I made use of The Works; surely the most abysmal, but appropriately priced, bookshop in the world, by purchasing some remarkably cheap classic of literature; some hefty novels are £1.25 in there. Amongst other things, I got Fyodor Dostoevsky's epic Crime and Punishment. That man has a name built for a Mancunian tongue. Say it in the style of a Piccadilly scally and you'll understand. Add a little "innit" at the end for good measure.

As we left The Works, we saw a small group of topless teenage boys who were yelling "Get naked" to helpless passers-by. The shoppers didn't seem quite so keen.

The evening saw us sitting in Via Fossa on Canal Street. The upstairs in that bar is actually quite classy and, even better, if you're skint they don't mind you sitting in without drinking. We managed to escape before the drunken masses began to filter in, but not too early to avoid seeing the "limousine" that looks like a fire engine. I've never understood that.

What is Urban Trawling?

An urban trawler is an exile, a refugee, an outcast from the city-centre culture that has formed in recent years. That is a culture of frappuccino-sipping yuppies, glass-and-chrome apartment complex dwellers, elitist corporate bankers. Manchester has suffered from this fake plastic culture greatly and we are the victims.

We can't stand their artificial environment but, with a Starbucks on every corner, where else can we go? So we've claimed the streets as our own and that is how it will stay.

Not all those who wander the streets are urban trawlers; scallies and drunks, for example, are common place. But in Manchester a culture has formed of artists, philosophers and poets who are turning the city in to our own. We spray-paint shutters, scribble on walls, busk on the spur of the moment. We take in the grandeur of the city - and there are few cities as grand as Manchester - and we make it our own.

We reject the idea that city living is about sitting in a cocktail bar and watching the poor people trudge past. This city is full of life; from Salford to Rusholme, from Ancoats to Hulme, this is the most vibrant city in the world and we won't let the bourgeois fuckers smother that.

Goodbye Mr. Thomas

Today, as my illness has not yet subsided, I've been doing some research in to real drinking places in Manchester. I remember once going in to Mr. Thomas's Chop House, in between Cross Street and St. Anne's Square. It's a truly delightful 'olde pub' style place that conjours up images of Dickensian London. However, the prices are thoroughly modern London, which is why it's frequented by suit-wearing King Street corporate bankers.

It is now that I must point out that, contrary to popular belief, it is possible to find a cheap pint in London. It's rare, but not impossible - in a South Bank bar overlooking the Thames last week, I managed to get a pint for £1.60. I admit, it was one of The Real Greek's four consecutive happy hours, but I was still astonished. That is a price more likely found in a Jospeh Holt's pub than five paces from Shakespeare's Globe. This brings me on to a much better alternative to the expensive Chop House. Just a few minutes away, on John Dalton Street, is the wonderfully named Ape & Apple. It doesn't hurt you to try or. Or cost you very much.

One travesty of up-market trendiness that I forgot to mention in my pervious entry is the horrific monument that stands mockingly on Manchester holy ground. I talk, of course, about the Haçienda apartments, which are even offensive to take the name of our legendary Fac 51. Only the wealthy would be ignorant enough to piss on our city's glory days like this. If you see an angry man at the far-end of Whitworth Street, come and say hello.

Finally, I'd like to gratefully thank Yankunian for the mention on The Manchizzle. Yes, my mumps are going away.

Real walls

One of the most horrible sights in a modern city is the glass-and-chrome building. Few cities have suffered in this respect as badly as Manchester, which embarrassingly boasts countless notable examples; the new Arndale extension, the disguistingly bourgeois Number One Deansgate and, the epitome of vacuous modern architecture, the Urbis.

The Urbis itself is, like the Millenium Dome in London, an utterly meaningless exercise in pure folly. For a while, quite disturbingly, they were actually charging people to go in. Of course, the majority of Mancunians are pretty quick on the uptake and when they realised nobody was going, they axed the entrance fees. But still, you might not be wasting money by going in, but you're certainly wasting time.

The last time I was there, the exhibition was something to do with "urban re-generation," where artists would design the city of the future, or something equally irrelevant to the real world. Pretty much because, every one of their models had turned Manchester in to a thousand tiny Urbises. Plus, they only used about 10% of the space in the building, the rest of it apparently there simply to complement the amazing natural light you get in that building. Think, a city-centre space as valuable as that. I can admire the light much better from outside.

If you want art in Manchester, there are thousands of places you can go. The most obvious examples are Manchester Art Gallery, (Although I object to the entrance being through the gift-shop) or the wonderful Whitworth Art Gallery down towards Rusholme. Of course, the Lowry at Salford Quays is an incredible display of work by a truly wonderful artist, but it's the hardest place in Greater Manchester to reach.

Of course, of these chrome-and-glass buildings, there is a shining example of yuppie-ignorance that is just a little out of the limelight. There is a bar on Oxford Road, just past the BBC, called Kro 2 (The sequel to Kro Bar, apparently) which has invisible walls. Through these walls, you can see out on to Oxford Road itself. However, you can also see the dirty underside of the Mancunian Way.

Imagine this - middle-class toffs sipping the cocktails bought with mummy and daddy's money, staring out of these fine full-wall windows. And what do they see? A homeless couple, huddled together under the fly-over for warmth and shelter from the rain. This happens, I've seen it. And they just look away, deny its existence, stare at the number 43 going past instead. If they don't want to see reality, why can't they just build a real wall?

God Hates Figs

Being an employee of Manchester Metropolitan University, I shouldn't really bite the hand that feeds me. However, it has to be said, they should surely have better things to do than look at people's underwear habits. Maybe it's just my dismal standards, but I find it hard to believe only 10% of people ever wear underwear three days running; if you're on a bender, who finds the time to change?

My own interest in the topic of under-crackers, combined with my mumps-induced boredom have lead to me pondering great theological matters. I wrote to Phred Felps in search of his wisdom;

Dear Rev. Phred Felps,

As a pious man yourself, you must understand a person's philosophical desire to answer life's most arcane questions, the kind of puzzlements bigger than one's own mortality. Religion is very deep and important to my life.

My question is this; does God wear underwear beneath his robes? If so, of what kind? If not, does the heavenly draft make him uncomfortable? And does he get annoyed with human looking up his robes from below when they pray? I guess a man of his size has nothing to be insecure about.

Thank you,
Simon

PS, I love your work.

The work of which I refer to is spreading the word of God on the disgusting topic of dried wrinkly fruit.