Manchester

Statue to blind World War One returnees

On Tuesday morning, Shirley and I took a train to the city of Manchester. I had not been there in ten years, even though it is only thirty five miles from Sheffield. Between our two great northern cities there's a chain of hills - The Pennines - often referred to as "the backbone of England". Many Lancashire people never cross those hills and it's the same over here in Yorkshire. We are all northerners but somewhat disconnected.

We were mainly heading to Manchester to visit The National Football Museum and Manchester Cathedral but I agreed with Shirley that she would have some shopping time. She is not the only woman who loves to have a mooch round shops whereas I, like most blokes, view that activity as a kind of slow mental torture.

After leaving Picadilly Station we made our way towards the Arndale Shopping Centre but first we found ourselves walking down one of Manchester's most famous streets - Canal Street which is the epicentre of the city's "Gay Village". With its bars and clubs and eateries it is a neighbourhood in which gay people can be quite open and confident in their associations. 

Times have changed for the better in that regard. Once homosexual people had to function in veiled secrecy, often watching their backs. I am not saying that all prejudice and discrimination has gone - it hasn't - but it seems to me that the wider society is far more accepting of gay culture than it once was. Canal Street is part of that change and this weekend, Manchester will host its forty first Pride Weekend.

Canal Street

Ten years on I was impressed with Manchester city centre. It was buzzing and though it pains me to say this, it certainly felt like the northern capital. There has been a lot of upward building, more pedestrianised streets, more public art and for a Tuesday there were a lot of visitors - mostly I am sure from the Greater Manchester region which includes big towns like Oldham, Wigan, Stockport, Rochdale and Altrincham.

We had lunch in Manchester Art Gallery  cafe and went upstairs to check out two galleries that contain works  by one of my favourite artists: Manchester-born L.S.Lowry ( 1887 - 1976).

"An Island" by L.S.Lowry (1942)

Then it was on to the cathedral which I had never visited before and nearby was The National Football Museum. In there I wore a virtual reality headset for the first time and played the part of a goalkeeper though the steward in charge told me not to dive as a proper goalkeeper does.

I also tried my hand at commentating on a "Match of the Day" game before watching the replay. I may have missed my vocation!

There were lots of football-related exhibits but I was miffed because of the murky lighting. Explanatory labels were very difficult to read and I wished I had taken a torch with me (American: flashlight). I was further miffed that there was hardly any reference to the big part that Sheffield played in the gestation of modern football.

The National Football Museum

This city is home to the world's first proper football clubs - Sheffield F.C. and Hallam  F.C. and Hallam's Sandygate Road ground is the oldest football ground in the world.. Furthermore the "Sheffield Rules" for football formed the basis of The English Football Association rules that followed  later in the nineteenth century. The National Football Museum should celebrate these facts in my humble opinion but of course it is in Manchester.

Rather than heading back to the railway station at teatime we had drinks on Canal Street and then went to the Arnero Restaurant for a traditional North Indian curry meal.

It was a grand day out. In "Uniglo"  Shirley bought herself some trousers and two tops while I chatted with a horse dealer from Stockport. It seems that his wife also suffers from the shopping virus. The train home was on time and Butch was waiting dutifully for us at Dore and Totley Station.

View from the west door of Manchester Cathedral

Quiztime

As Frances from Hertfordshire, England reminded me the other day - there hasn't been an episode of "Quiztime" on this blog for quite a while. So here we go. The theme is arches and all you have to do is decide where the arch is located - choosing from four alternatives. You will find the correct answers in the comments section. Good luck!

⦿

1. (a) Delhi, India (b) Singapore (c) Budapest, Hungary (d)  Bombay, India

2. (a) Brussels, Belgium (b) London, England 

(c) Melbourne, Australia (d) Athens, Greece

3. (a) Madrid (b) St Petersburg (c) Paris (d) Vienna

4. (a) Syria (b) Lebanon (c) Mexico (d) Malta

5. (a) Lisbon, Portugal (b) New York, USA 

(c) Tirana, Albania (d) Toronto, Canada

6. (a)  Edinburgh (b) Athens (c) Avignon, France (d) Rome

7. (a) Saudi Arabia (b) Japan (c) The Philippines (d) North Korea

8. (a) Cleveland, Ohio (b) San Francisco, California

(c) New Orleans, Louisiana (d) St Louis, Missouri

9. Sadly this natural arch collapsed in 2021

(a) The Orkney Islands, Scotland (b) The Galapagos Islands, Ecuador

(c)  Lofoten Islands, Norway (d) Chatham Islands, New Zealand

10. (a) Canada and USA border (b) Poland and Germany border

(c) North Korea and South Korea border (d) Ukraine and Russia border

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That's all folks! How did you do?

Swearing

You may not have noticed but in this twenty one year old blog, written swear words are as rare as hens' teeth. I don't like gratuitous swearing. It jars my sensibilities and it rather irks me when I come across unnecessary swear words in other people's blogs.

It's the same with fiction and film, I feel uncomfortable with swearing that is clearly there for sensational effect and/or does not seem in tune with the context. It makes me bristle.

But I am not stupid. I know that  many people do swear. It's part of their natural vocabulary, an element of who they are. And I have to admit that when angry, frustrated or self-flagellating in the privacy of my own home, swear words will often boil out of me like steam from hot water. I can curse with the best of them.

And with all of this in mind, I have just finished reading a novel by the Glaswegian author, James Kelman. It won The Booker Prize in 1994 and its title is "How Late It Was, How Late".  It has sometimes been called a "stream of consciousness" novel. The central character and narrator is a working class Glaswegian who drinks and smokes and has been in prison for petty criminal activity. He is called Sammy and he swears like a trooper. Hardly a page goes by without a bunch of swear words to accompany his story telling.  

But here's the thing. I did not mind the swearing one iota in "How Late It Was, How Late". It was "right" for Sammy. He's filled with anger, self-loathing and a strong sense of injustice. Good fortune never seems to be on his side. It is very appropriate that his narrative voice should include a lot of swear words. What is more, I was hugely impressed by James Kelman's rare ability to think himself into the mind of an anti-hero like Sammy. In my view the novel was a supreme act of sustained creativity built on the perceived reality of Glasgow's mean streets. Deprivation invariably impacts on the language that disregarded and unsuccessful people use.

As a reader, I think it was pretty helpful that I spent my university days up in Scotland. It made the process of "tuning in" a little easier I think.

Here's a taste of the language:-

Fuck it, he had to get going, he had to get going; he would get going, it just took a while to get started; it's no he was lazy, he wasnay lazy, he just needed time to sort things out; once he had that right he could move as fast as any cunt; in fact sometimes he moved too fast for his own fucking good; that was how come he was in this situation. Typical, fucking typical. Nay wonder he didnay like moving fast man see when he did, he fucking

he fuckt things man, he just fuckt things, he fuckt things up.  (page 115)

I hope that in transcribing that  sweary extract, I have not immediately lost some of my most loyal blog visitors...

COMMENTS

Bob Slatten -  August 25, 2026 at 11:47 PM

I was outraged by the presence of both the "f" word and the "c" word in this foul-mouthed blogpost and I won't ever come back. You can stick your Yorkshire pudding up yer ****ing arse! (American: ass) 

Finally, I do not wish to give too much away about the novel but I will say that  Sammy has unexpectedly become blind after an assault in a  police cell. Let's just leave it at that.

Earworm

Until researching googling "The Carnival Is Over", I never realised that it owed such a lot to a Russian folk song called "Stenka Razin".  That song celebrates the life of a legendary cossack who led a revolt against the nobility and their agents in southern Russia in the late seventeenth century.

In the mid-sixties it was re-interpreted by British songwriter and producer Tom Springfield who was Dusty Springfield's older brother. He wrote several songs for The Springfields and for The Seekers who were an Australian band with a special songstress - the late Judith Durham.

Her voice was plaintive and pure and it connected easily with people. It was really she who gave the song traction in the English speaking world.

"The Carnival is Over" is about what happens when something comes to an end - a relationship, a voyage, a carnival. Most humans can relate to that particular  feeling of sadness when something good finishes and you cannot do a damned thing about it. The world must move on.

Pierrot and Columbine are mentioned in the song but why and who were they? They were the names of two stock characters in the old Italian pantomime-like theatre known as Commedia del'arte. Pierrot was a sad clown in love with the beautiful Columbine who breaks his heart by leaving him for Harlequin.

The song became a big hit here in Great Britain in 1965, denying "My Generation" by The Who  the number one position in the musical charts. It has been my inner earworm for the last couple of days and maybe it will become yours too. Tee-hee! That's partly why I am passing it on.

Sing it baby!

Say goodbye my own true lover
As we sing a lover's song
How it breaks my heart to leave you
Now the carnival is gone

High above the dawn is waiting
And my tears are falling rain
For the carnival is over
We may never meet again

Like a drum, my heart was beating
And your kiss was sweet as wine
But the joys of love are fleeting
For Pierrot and Columbine

Now the harbour light is calling
This will be our last goodbye
Though the carnival is over
I will love you till I die

Like a drum, my heart was beating
And your kiss was sweet as wine
But the joys of love are fleeting
For Pierrot and Columbine

Now the harbour light is calling
This will be our last goodbye
Though the carnival is over
I will love you till I die
Though the carnival is over
I will love you till I die

Michael

As I walked up the beautiful Limb Valley late this very morning, I noticed another walker ahead of me. Gradually, I caught him up and as I slowly overtook him he asked, "How fast are you going?"

I said, "35 mph".

"I'm only doing thirty," he chuckled.

We fell in stride together and started conversing as we walked along. We were both on our way to the hamlet of Ringinglow. And when we reached the place, we both had a notion to go into "The Norfolk Arms" for liquid refreshment. He ordered a pint of bitter while I asked for a pint of orange cordial and soda water with a packet of salt and vinegar crisps (American; chips).

We sat at a spare table together, talking for a further forty minutes.

He was a complete stranger to me as I was to him but we soon learnt a lot about each other and discovered several things we had in common. He said his name was Michael and I told him my name was Neil. Furthermore, jokingly, I informed him that I was heartily sick of meeting men called Michael.

"They are all over the place. My two quizmates are called Michael and so is my oldest nephew. Why couldn't the parents give them different names like Linus  or Archibald? But not bloody Michael!"

Michael laughed. He knew that I was kidding.

We talked about his late wife. Eight years ago, they had been on a walking holiday in north west Scotland and both of them came back with summer colds. Michael's cold quickly cleared up but his wife's cold remained troublesome.

She visited her doctor and was then admitted to hospital. One thing led to another and she finished up on intensive care with a life-threatening respiratory complaint. But sadly, though she was in good hands, there was to be no happy ending. She died and Michael was left on his own.

But eight years on the fellow was chipper, upbeat and sharp. I  very much regret not exchanging contact details. We share a kind of philosophy when it comes to walking and I know that it is a  philosophy that keen walker  Meike Riley in Germany would also subscribe to.

Walking is not just about putting one foot in front of the other. It's about absorbing the natural world around you and letting your thoughts wander where they will. It's not just about physical well-being it's about mental well-being too - working things out, problem-solving, remembering, thinking creatively as you plod the miles.

Before we shook hands and went our separate ways, Michael told me that he will be ninety next year.

He walks every day come rain or shine but still misses his beloved wife. His sixty four year old daughter Sarah and her Liverpudlian husband Kevin have just retired to a big house in North Wales and they want Michael to go over there to live with them. He has told them that he will think about it but first he wants a month's trial.

He said, "I need to check out paths and walking routes over there before I say yes."

I told him that the trial month was a very good idea.

How lovely it was to meet that man. I could have talked with him for hours but the truth is that I will probably never see him again. We were like ships that pass in the night even though our time together was in the middle of the day.

Victory

Nobel Mendy scored the second goal for Hull City on his debut

Regular readers of this humble Yorkshire blog may recall that my football team - Hull City A.F.C. were promoted to The Premier League last season. We won the play-off final against Middlesbrough at Wembley on May 28th.

Well today we played our first match of the new season. It was a home game against the redoubtable Manchester United. You may have heard of them. There are several individual players on Manchester United's books who cost more than Hull City's entire squad. Their top players are paid about £170,000 a week or $232,000 US.

The stadium was packed and in a section that was once occupied by home fans there is now a media facility that accommodated dozens of journalists with their laptops, microphones, producers and cameras. The Premier League is a big deal with interest all over the world. Today's game was watched live in approximately 900 million homes in 126 different countries.

My mate Tony and I had more hope than expectation that we would secure  a draw or even a win against Manchester United but we should have had more faith. Our lads were deservedly two goals up by halftime and that was the final score.

We were as delighted and thrilled as the rest of The Tigers' Tribe. What a way to start the season!

Over in the far corner were three thousand travelling Manchester United fans. How we laughed when the stadium announcer told them that the 15.05 and 17.05 trains back to Manchester had both been cancelled! It was like rubbing salt in their wounds.

Regarding their star-studded team, it was as if they were half-asleep or operating in third gear. But our cut price team of assorted characters from here and there were really up for it, playing like true Tigers with desire and togetherness. Two nil - so brilliant!

It was tonight's headline match on the long-running BBC football highlights  programme, "Match of the Day".

We might be relegated at the end of this season but at least we will have  golden memories of today - City beating Man United in a league match for the first time in fifty two years! Up The Tigers!

Defender Semi Ajayi scored the first goal

Monolith

Four miles west of Bridlington is the village of Rudston. Within its churchyard, there is something quite stupendous. In my judgement, it deserves the label "awesome" when so many things that purport to be awesome are not really awesome at all.

Standing twenty six feet above the ground, it is the tallest standing stone in The British Isles. Furthermore, some experts have concluded that another eighteen to twenty feet of stone lie below ground level. Quite amazing.

Nobody knows for sure how long The Rudston Monolith has stood in that place but it was there many centuries before All Saints Church was built next to it by Normans. Knowledgeable archaeologists have determined that it has probably been in situ for over four thousand years.

Carefully studying the surrounding landscape, others have suggested that the monolith was once central to a pagan cult and that the current church stands on the very ground where there was once some sort of pagan temple.

Early Christians were very cunning that way - commandeering pagan sites in order to win over local inhabitants whose associations with paganism went right back through the mists of time. Normally those early Christians sought to obliterate evidence of previous belief systems that were invariably connected with fertility, water sources, the sun, the moon and the skies above.

However, at Rudston they left the huge stone and probably affixed one of their crosses to the top of it. That might be what saved the monolith.  Another name for a cross is a "rood" and so the village became "Rood-stane" which evolved into the modern name Rudston.

But where did the huge gritstone come from and how was it made to stand upright?  It is estimated that The Rudston Monolith weighs approximately thirty tons. It was probably hauled to Rudston from Cayton Bay - some ten miles away. If that is true, it was an incredible feat but the actual process involved remains unknown and how the stone was made to stand upright is also pure guesswork.

I freely admit that I am enamoured with such places, such ancient evidence of past human life and if I hadn't been with Shirley and Phoebe on our Bridlington mini-break, I would have been doing some proper walking and exploring in the surrounding district. Mind you, there would have been no answers to stumble across - just a tantalising sense of what once was - long, long ago.

Shirley, Phoebe and Lam-Lam by the monolith.