OK, so your school textbooks told you that Manchester was the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution and the scene of the Peterloo Massacre – but who knew the city's (far more interesting) secret history? Rumour has it that Jimmy Saville (OBE) invented modern DJing in Manc when he bolted two record players together to play an uninterrupted flow of pop. And if you can overlook the fact that the
locals gave us Simply Red and M People, remember that the Stone Roses, Oasis, the Smiths and the Happy Mondays also came swaggering out of the northwest. Throw in the fact that Manchester has the largest
gay community outside London, a thriving Chinatown and a 20ft bike by the canalside, and I knew I was in for a weekend to remember when I headed for the pride of Lancashire.
Having optimistically 'forgotten' to pack anything more substantial than a t-shirt for my trip, I arrived at Piccadilly station to see the sun disappearing behind an afternoon-sized cloud. Undeterred, I decided to bolster my wardrobe by swinging through the impressive shopping area between the Arndale Centre and the cathedral. It may be known as The Shambles, but it's anything
but disappointing if you fancy some serious retail therapy -apart from Birmingham and London, only Manchester can boast branches of Selfridges and Harvey Nichols, both nestled invitingly off the newly redeveloped Exchange Square.
If you like your shopping a little less shiny, turn back on yourself and head up Oldham Street towards the legendary Northern Quarter - the beating heart of Manchester's vintage/retro/alternative scene. By the time I'd negotiated the nooks and crannies of Ryan Vintage, American Graffiti, Retro Rehab and Oxfam Originals,
I was in danger of buying my own bodyweight in tanktops. Well, that was until I chanced upon Pop, a boutique which not only houses a pun-tastically named hair salon (Barbarella) but also has a basement café, complete with formica tables and wallpaper so gaudy it could cause permanent retina damage.
Needless to say, I struggled out an hour later with a pile of skin-tight t-shirts and retro kitchen utensils high enough to dwarf Peter Crouch.
As any self-respecting shopper will tell you, emptying a store of its entire stock is no easy task, so I was happy to recharge my batteries at the Farmers' Market, on the fountain side of Piccadilly Gardens. It only appears for the second and fourth weekend of the month (Friday and Saturday), which is just as well. If it were set up any more frequently, the tempting array
of local cheeses, homemade ice creams and open grills might pose a serious threat to the collective health of the city. I befriended an American art historian by the name of Marcie in the barbecue line and we soon bonded over an attempt to create a bespoke burger to match Elvis Presley's wildest bovine excesses (ever tried a bacon-and-cheese-and-onion-and-sausage burger with extra mayo?)
Having been given the all-clear by the blood pressure and cholesterol team who had fortuitously pitched their tent nearby, Marcie recommended that we head off to sate our cultural appetite at Manchester's most iconic museum.
Manchester has undergone a period of radical change over the last few decades, so it's fitting that it should have its own museum of city life, the extraordinary glass labyrinth Urbis. Despite being marginally more difficult to navigate than the backstreets of Venice, its recent exhibitions on the Sex Pistols, the 1996
Manchester bombing and innovative advertising and design are as compelling and interactive as you could wish for in a public gallery. I suspect it may have been an undercover Home Office initiative, but I was particularly taken by the tiny exhibition on CCTV, which allows you to design and print your own ID card before displaying it on a wall. Next time you're there, see if you can spot Our Man
amongst the hundreds of others... Oh, and if museums tend to bore you rigid, try seeking out the exhibits dotted around outside the gallery space - if you look hard enough, there's a guitar signed by Noel Gallagher lurking somewhere on the ground floor.
With the sun dropping in the sky, I kicked off the evening's festivities on Deansgate - the long artery of hostelries running down the west side of the city centre. After an aperitif and a brief glimpse of soap 'star' Dean Gaffney in the inoffensively mediocre RSVP bar, I realised that my stomach was growling like an ill-tempered ferret. Obviously seeing
the hunger in my eyes, locals Ste and Gaz drew me a much needed map for the legendary tapas restaurant El Rincon de Rafa (tucked away on Longworth Street, just off St John's Street), before agreeing to meet up later and sample the delights of Manchester's nightlife.
The smells wafting up from Rafa's were enough to send me into raptures, so you can imagine my dismay when I encountered a queue which seemed to stretch back to Liverpool. I put in a quick call to Ste, who directed me back onto Deansgate, towards the tapas bar and wine merchant Evuna. You wouldn't think a hundred-square-metre area could support two Spanish restaurants,
but when they're this good it's hard to understand why the entire street isn't one big latin quarter. After sipping on a glass of the exquisite white wine Missenyora (try taking a bottle away at half price), I waded into a selection of garlic prawns, roasted vegetables, calamari and chorizo, and rolled back up the hill to meet Ste in the Northern Quarter.
Ste had somehow lost Gaz to a marauding party of newly qualified actuaries, so he roped in his mate Ash to show me the sights of the Northern Quarter after dark. First up was the aptly named Odd bar, which does pretty much what it says on the tin. Locals in the psychedelic main bar sup on the lesser-known Belgian extra-blond beer Vedett,
whilst surrounded by posters, ancient cigarette ads and photos of cult glamour model Bettie Page. Nearby Bluu is slightly more toned-down, but ploughs a similar furrow, displaying a host of funky 70s fittings and a basement bar decorated with inexplicably huge murals of women in their smalls.
Next up, Ash steered us toward Rodeo - a bar which may be marginally smaller than some people's airing cupboards, but offers an equally warm welcome to its visitors. The service is friendly, the frozen margaritas are legendary, and it's impossible to lose your friends (unless, like Ste, you mistake the only fire exit for a door to another bar and end up in
the car park). Rodeo's wordlessly cool sister-bar Socio Rehab was our final stop - a drinking hole whose reputation amongst locals is so good that it has no signage outside. Get yourself to Edge Street and then follow those in the know if you want to sample Manchester's best cocktails in a chilled-out setting.
Waking up within view of the Central Library, I had the peculiar impression of being in a continental city. I don't know if it was the trams, the architecture or the Dutch pancake house on the corner, but I felt like I'd been transported into the centre of Manchester's twin city, Amsterdam. What better time, then, to catch a barge downriver? A quick stop for supplies at the
absurdly delicious (and completely rammed) deli Love Saves the Day at the bottom of Deansgate, and I was off to catch a boat to Manchester United's Old Trafford ground.
As staunch (and slightly hungover) United fans, Ste and Ash wouldn't let me leave without promising to take a stadium tour through the club's self-styled 'Theatre of Dreams'. In all honesty, I had my reservations about pumping more cash in the direction of the country's
biggest club, but my guide, Gerry, was a genuine born-and-bred United fan. His encyclopaedic knowledge of the club encompassed everything from the dimensions of the pitch to the thinking behind Rio Ferdinand eating jaffa cakes during games, and even the reasons why United provide the best disabled access to Premiership matches. To top it all off, I managed to escape the club shop without buying
any Man. United cones, Man. United light switch covers or signing up for a Man. United credit card. I'm afraid the Man. United jelly babies proved too much for me though…
Over on the light blue side of town, Manchester City fans can tour the shiny new City of Manchester Stadium, which includes the unmissable opportunity to commentate John Motson-stylee on some of City's greatest goals. As well as being a pretty stunning piece of architecture in its own right, the stadium's grounds contain the striking 'B of the Bang' sculpture - a
massive explosion of metal to commemorate the 2002 Commonwealth Games.
Evening was drawing near and I had just enough time for a last bite to eat before hopping on my train back home. With this in mind, I popped into the popular Livebait restaurant on Lloyd Street, just ten minutes' walk from the station. When the seafood platter arrived I was concerned it would take me a week to work through the mountain of shellfish, but I obviously underestimated
my capacity for gluttony - by the time I stood on the platform waiting for my train, I'd also managed to tuck away a few crab cakes and a sticky toffee pudding rich enough to run for the US presidency. Ah well, diets aren't meant for the weekend, are they…?
