manchester.

I confess, I’ve skipped over writing about my disaster of a trip to Manchester.  I initially contacted the established CS member in the gloomy Manchester band t-shirt because hey, shared love of a gloomy Manchester band = yay common interests = BFFs!  I asked if he could put me up for two nights and would he possibly be interested in seeing Swans perform at the Academy since he liked wearing this gloomy Manchester band t-shirt so much?  He had never heard of Swans and wasn’t going to start now, but that worked out in my favor as I would be joining him at a house party later that night.

I arrived to the house several miles south of city center, the door answered by a nice and wary flatmate.  Mr. Popular wasn’t there but I convinced her to let me in and drink the beer I brought to share.  She laughed when I told her this was my first surf, and led me towards the kitchen in response to my raised eyebrow.  This was indeed a bachelor pad if there ever was one – food and trash piled and molding everywhere.  I didn’t mind the state of the place one bit.  I was appreciative that I had a space to sleep.

Mr. Popular arrived a bit later and it became clear that he had forgotten about my arrival, distracted it seems by the notion of having a Czech and two Swede girls booked as well.  I did the math in my head and came up with the four of us sharing one small couch and one not-a-loveseat-more-a-chair.  “Don’t worry”, he smirked, “I’ll get at least some of them into bed with me and you can have the couch!”.  I began worrying.

I met the rest of the mates and everyone in the house was quite friendly but the conversation kept coming back to sex, specifically how this group of guys relied on CS to bring in a steady stream of fresh, young, needy females.  I began getting queasy, and continued worrying.

After failing to share my beer with the hungover lads I went off in search of food and more beer in preparation of said early early show.  A masterful swipe of guilt on Mr. Popular’s part had me bringing my purchases back to the house to spend a bit more time with the peeps, though when I returned all eyes were fixed on the Local Sports Game [tm].  I ate in silence and slowly realized I was not a proper guest, rather it was expected I become one-way fascinated by and inquisitive of these feather-headed cockquistadors.  Especially the leader, the one in the gloomy Manchester band t-shirt.

I made my way to a surreal pint at the Temple of Convenience, a pub built into an old public toilet (featuring a great jukebox).  From there I entered the Academy and had a second helping of Swans.  The show was fantastic and deafening and I exited church a bit off of my head into the streets of Manchester on a Saturday Halloween party night.

Central Manchester is hella young, dare I say younger than London, and as I passed the crowds either dressed up in costume or as costume I wondered how my early 20s would have been spent in a city as lively as this one.  Bars and clubs consistently dotted the streets, with the dressed-up eye candy so fascinating I decided to walk the three miles or so back towards this party.  The one that I didn’t have a costume for, but one I was assured wasn’t costume required.

A long time passes, and not only have I traversed most of the city but I’ve walked the entirety of Curry Mile.  I’ve so far seen dozens of sexy nurses, three Batmens, a Hulk, and plenty of sexy mustard – every single costume vaguely superhero and/or sexy was out on the streets, out to fight and/or sex up crime.

I arrive to the address I was given, tired from the walk and completely in my own headspace from the powerful performance.  I get my first insult as I approach the door, something both aggressive and snide about me the unknown just “helping myself” to the party.  I wasn’t sure what he was on about until I opened the door into an apartment jam-packed full of EVERYONE ELSE in costume.  Costume optional my ass – I made a quick round but didn’t see Mr. Popular or his perpetual wingmens or any sign of available alcohol.   While the wizards and robots filling the halls tried to figure out my costume I made a hasty escape back out into the cold night.  Party fun failure, hardcore.

A stumbling woman speaking in slurry Russian asked if I know how to get her home, and thanks to my handy iDevice I’m convinced I just might.  Let it be said that getting lost in southern Manchester escorting a blacking-out Russian past the people she’s insulting is a far better time than being the odd duck out at a pick-up party.  After another hour of walking and finally getting her to a recognizable bus stop I realize just how exhausted I am and how little I want to return to that party.  I text Mr. Popular and tell him I’m heading back… back to a locked door and no one answering.

I knew this outcome had a high probability, so I curled into a ball on the porch and tried to get some sleep.  It’s fucking cold and I’m still deep in my head - hours go by in minor misery before the 4am screen door opens and I jump to attention.  As I enter the living room and prepare myself for the couch I realize there’s a body already on it.  Fuck.  I do what I can in the chair but I wake up not 4 hours later, sore and delirious.  The Czech girl was wildly apologetic about taking the couch, explaining that Mr. Popular told her I’d brought my own sleeping bag and would be fine on the floor. It's 8:30am and I'm already pissed, in the opposite meaning of the word from the night prior.

I say my good-luck-good-bye to the token female flatmate and tear out of there, abandoning the rest of my Manchester weekend for the first bus back to Birmingham.

God I hate Mr. Popular.  He probably doesn’t even own any gloomy Manchester band CDs!

(sidenote: CS feedback works like eBay, and Mr. Popular is basically a powerseller.  He was miffed because he “never got” any of my text messages with the subtext that I used him for his terrible chair and exploitative yarns.  If I leave bad feedback on him and/or call him out it’ll scroll off of the page within a week.  Him leaving a negative on me would destroy my n00bile reputation.  Some things are better ignored forever and ever and a day.)

Manchester: Loved what I saw.  Hated what I experienced.