Working in Manchester - part one
2008-12-05

Right, so I am now working in Manchester.

It’s not my fault. You think I wanted to be further north where the average rainfall is, like, 8 million inches a year, where the Northern men have shit all over their hands and where eeeeYAH! is a standard greeting?!

No, I didn’t.

But you wouldn’t have me Nottingham. You cast me out in the cold, cold world with no job and no friends and no life, hungry and penniless where I had to beg for money and food in the street. I loved you Nottingham, why?!

Actually, it’s not that at all. I got a cushy job at the uni and my wife wanted to be closer to her folks. I am so Rock and Roll.

Manchester is a weird place. Its inhabitants are mostly ex-hippie commies who shop at places with happy little names like "Unicorn" or "Barbakan". Places that don’t sell meat and where uttering the phrase "Free trade" just might get you killed. You want a challenge? Try buying a Coke and something that contains gluten in Chorlton.

It’s also got to be the only place in the western world where a bombing did millions of dollars worth of improvements.

Being full of ex-hippie commies, you’d expect them to be a friendly lot, but they’re not. I used to whinge about Nottinghamites always calling me "love" or "darling" or "duck". I will never whinge about that again. In Manchester, if you don’t get a "fuck off", you’ve done well.

Even my famous grocery store checkout joke doesn’t cheer the miserable bastards up. Back in Notts, when the cashier rubbed a barcode across the scanner and it didn’t scan, I'd say "Whoa, I guess that one is free", to which the cashier and I would share a hearty guffaw. I tried that one at the Urmston Somerfield and the lady just looked at me and said (without a hint of irony), "No, it’s not." Yes, I, uh, guess that’s true, uh, you got me there… Right, I’ll just take my groceries and fuck off then, shall I?

If you are not a dirty tree hugging commie in Manchester, chances are you’re either a chav or an uptight Audi driving twat judging from my first few experiences with the Mancunian public at large.

On my first day in the new job, I decided to take a little stroll to the Northern Quarter on my lunch break. I was just about to cross Portland street when the aforementioned Audi driving twat (ADT) went tearing through the crossing on a red light. Honestly, one more step and I would've been a grease mark. I put my hands up and gave him a "What the fuck are you sniffing?" look. He immediately stopped the car with a screech and started shouting at ME like I had done something wrong. The shouting was so harsh and loud that I thought I HAD done something wrong. I am the king of putting my foot in it, so this time I wanted to be sure I was in the right before returning fire. I looked up, saw the green man facing me, looked at the car, still shouting, looked up again, green man still there.

Now, I don't mind getting shouted at when I've done something stupid (lord knows that happens more often than I'd like) but I'm not going to stand by when some ADT is shouting at me after almost running my beautiful ass over.

Before I continue, I think I should mention something to the non-Albertans reading this. We, the Albertans (redneck province in Canada) are hot heads. Hot heads who drop f-bombs like it’s going out of style. We use the word "fuck" like most people use "is". Obviously, the ADT didn’t know this and had assumed he would not get much of a response. He was very fucking mistaken. Don’t get me wrong, I have great admiration for the British ability to think before you speak. It’s a trait I have been trying to emulate (really), but it was too late, the red mist had well and truly descended.

I walked up to the driver’s side door, put one fist up like I was going to punch through the glass and stuck the index finger of my second fist into the window and shouted at the top of my lungs "IT WAS A RED LIGHT. OPEN YOUR MOTHERFUCKING EYES, YOU STUPID FUCKING CUNT!" It wasn’t until I had gotten to "your motherfucking eyes" that I realised that (in my rage) I had neglected to notice that the owner of the shouty mouth was a woman.

She started mumbling something in Manc-talk and pretended like she was going to open the door and get out. I pointed and shouted at her again (minus the c-word this time) and she closed the door. Instead of getting out, she drove away cry-shouting at me.

It was hard to stay mad as I couldn’t understand a blinking word of what she was saying... a handicap that will serve me well in my time here, I suspect. Instead of staying mad, I actually started to feel GUILTY. What’s wrong with me?! I get screeched and shouted at and almost killed and I’m the one that feels guilty... damn conscience! Where the hell did that come from?

More in Manchester part two...