Manc

Never has the phrase ‘place of two halves’ been more apt. In fact I think the correct word is ‘game’, not ‘place’, but the bastardised phrase works for the wonderful city of Manchester. I have barely dipped in and out since I studied here in the mid-noughties but have always felt a close affinity to it as the region of my birth (in Rochdale, greater metropolitan region).

I had slept in a bargain Easyhotel in the Northern Quarter, a bargain because the rooms were underground, windowless and without floor space. I don’t know how planning permission was obtained. However, the excellent location enabled me to trot around Manchester city centre before catching the train (bargain ticket, long live the North) to Crewe to meet papa.

The contrast of Manchester these days is totally striking. Vast riches poured into quayside developments whilst tens of thousands of Mancunians struggle with abject poverty. It was alternately gritty and glitzy at every turn. I went to a Greggs in Piccadilly Gardens (lured by a sausage and bean pasty; who wouldn’t be after a lengthy absence) and it was like a scene from 28 Days Later, deep into the dystopia. I am pleased that a good egg like Andy Burnham has a leadership role and is passionate about Manchester, and I’m aware the poorest are facing a losing battle against global currents of corporate control and inequality, but the city mustn’t pour all of its resources into condominiums in Salford Quays and neglect society’s safety net.

I arrived at the family home in Staffordshire, reunited with my parents and we spent the afternoon pottering around the house, eating cheese sandwiches, looking for newts in the pond and trying to outdo each other on The Chase. I adore holidays, and although I have said this often, our thanks must go to the courageous union members who pushed for these privileges in times gone by. I suspect a good number of them were steely Mancunians.