‘‘Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.
The darkness deepens Lord, with me abide.’’
The following isn’t so much a call to arms, more to the bar or the fridge. A love letter to the city that God created on the sixth day.
But it hasn’t always been a decent gig, a couple of nice pints and a kebab with your mates.
2017. Monday 22nd May, when twenty-two innocent people many children were murdered in the centre of this city by a suicide bomber who I pray is rotting in hell. As the sea of flowers in remembrance were laid in Saint Ann’s square alongside the scrawled messages. The teddy bears and balloons. A people defiant, broken maybe but only their hearts. Left speechless and dry of tears but determined not to look back in anger. Manchester carried on and to quote the wonderful Tony Walsh once more ‘‘This is the place’’.
As Tony read out that beautiful poem dedicated to the rainy city and its people I swear to god time stood still that day. You couldn’t just hear a pin drop, you could hear it bounce.
Come this Saturday at Wembley stadium, I hope the world is shown again why Manchester is the greatest city in the world. Maybe I’m a touched biased, it isn’t Paris or New York, but they don’t understand the beauty of gravy and mushy peas and dipping Jaffa cakes in a coffee, and then the battle to save it before vanishing beneath!
This for me gives Manchester the edge. Pointless having a beach if it’s always raining anyway.
At 2-40.pm on Saturday afternoon, Mancunian hearts, both red and blue will be beating together in a rare show of solidarity when it comes to their football teams. A city united for just a few moments in time as the ancient Cup Final hymn of ‘‘Abide with Me’’ becomes ‘‘Abide with Manchester.’’ (Part Two)
But we won’t take up a lot of your time, because come three o’clock normal business will resume as the reds and blues go hell for leather for the FA Cup. City trying for the Double, United looking to save what has been a frankly, terrible, even vile season. Undoubtedly, this is the one, a Manchester derby with simply nothing to compare. But it will pass and the city once more will come together, at least until we meet again probably same time, same place, next year!
Manchester. ‘‘Sit Down next to me ’’ sang James at us and we did so on the dancefloor, in the pubs and the clubs. Even a beach in Blackpool surrounded by cider Strongbow bottles and other more less legal substances, I remember. Not guilty your honour.
‘‘If I hadn’t seen such riches, I could live with being poor.’’
This became a United anthem, immortalised in the Rotterdam rain beating Barcelona in 1991. Now it feels like a requiem for the beautiful days, as the reds have fell off a title winning cliff since Fergie told us to stand by our Manager.
The memories, the feelings, the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of those times are wrapped in a scarlet red ribbon in the ‘‘Sit Down’’ lyrics.
For the blues also, the success they are enjoying these days, pick your own song for there will come a time when the cups no long filleth over. Because like our kids playing at your feet, to growing tall like roses rising in the northern rain, like Mr Neville’s skyscrapers turning us into Gotham City. Before your very eyes, nothing lasts forever.
Nothing last forever. People and places vanish.
When I was a lot younger, derbies were horrible days, they still are, you never get used to the tension, you just suffer more! Schoolyards, work places, pubs and in these modern if not particularly better days, the torture chamber known as social media. A certain charming man, a Frenchman actually once declared, when probably playing table football in The Peveril and the Peak. “On derby day in Manchester, the city is cut in two. The Blues and the Reds invade the streets, and if your team wins the city belongs to you.’’ Too right Eric!
A simple game that for generations upon generations, like love, it tears apart families and friends. For some like mine, your team is passed down like a heirloom, you have no choice, the ritual, that first time up the steps to see the stadium with dad or your mum, maybe a grandparent or a brother or sister letting you go first, and then…
The drum roll. The smells. The bright green pitch only previously seen on television or in magazines, the music playing on the tannoy, you’re Peter Hooked for life! Sorry Peter.
The Stretford End, The Kippax, United Road, Platt Lane. Playgrounds as kids that later become second homes. Where lifelong friendships were made, where memories were forged that lived forever in your head, where the best of times could be had and the worst to make you think, oh heaven knows I’m miserable now. Groups of friends that become even closer than family. From that first time on the terrace having a laugh drinking Vimto, to a thousand boozy away days, to carrying their coffin and tears falling rain.
Manchester. Red and blue. A tattered red or blue scarf tucked away in a cupboard quite literally dying to tell it’s story.
Emmeline Pankhurst once wrote; ‘‘Manchester is a city which has witnessed a great many stirring episodes, especially of a political character. Its citizens defenders of free speech and liberty of opinion.’’
Just off Deansgate, approaching the Town Hall, close to those famous watering holes of The Rising Sun and the Manchester United heartland of the Nag’s Head, stands proudly a statue of Abraham Lincoln. On it reads: “The support that the working people of Manchester gave in their fight for the abolition of slavery during the American Civil War.”
This is no ordinary city. This is a strange and beautiful city. It is a hard city, full of problems, look at the doorways as you walk around town. A homeless army without guns or tanks, but an army nonetheless bereft of spirit and hope.
Manchester. An immigrant city always and still is an oasis for those from far off places wanting to start a new life, to escape from oppression. A new beginning on our cobbled streets. Whether they be Irish, Polish, Jews, Jamaicans, Syrians, Ukrainians, (again). Welcome.
Be them whatever faith, creed or colour, we’d ask only two things.
‘‘Are you gonna be a red or a blue and do you have sugar in yer tea?’’
Christ, we’d even brew up for scousers and cockneys, if, if they promised not to mention their football teams. Maybe…
‘‘When other helpers fail and comforts flee.
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.’’
For Manchester is that place and proud of it. Then came a certain, horrific late Monday evening, back on 22nd May 2017, that tested such Mancunian generosity to outsiders like never before, as the worst of atrocities were committed by some murdering bastard at the Manchester Arena. Children for God sakes? Saint Anne’s square the next day. Where do you even start? Broken red and blue hearts and silver balloons, and ‘‘we stand together’’ written in children’s scribble, next to a crying, matchstick figure on a tear stained piece of paper. Old and young of every religion and non, stare with eyes that scream out ‘‘Why?’’ And do you know what made it even stranger at the vigil?
It was a beautiful summer’s day in Manchester.
The sun shone bright.
A clear blue sky. Not a cloud in sight, except for the one that will linger forever more from around twenty minutes to eleven that devilish Monday May night, seven years ago.
Then the minute’s silence. Lighting candles, reciting poems. Suddenly, it became apparent my hometown was troubled, but even as the blood still lay fresh on the GMEX floor, we came together to say no to those who wished only to cause disharmony. ‘‘Chose Love’’ spoke Tony from the Town Hall balcony.
‘‘And there’s hard times again in these streets of our city.
But we won’t take defeat and we don’t want your pity.
Because this a place where we stand strong together.
With a smile on our face, Mancunians Forever.’’
Not Red or blue, black or white, Christian, Sikh, Jewish or Muslim.
Just Mancs. From Ardwick to Altrincham, from Bury to Burnage. Mancs. To kind of quote our Noel, we didn’t look back in anger…That’s just not us. But never forget, never give in.
Two days later Manchester United played Ajax in the Europa League final in Stockholm, and a flag was unfurled with the words: MANCHESTER ONE LOVE.
The rainy city’s tears fell once more.
So, you see we’re not just all about football, only when we’re awake! During Covid, the sirens and the silence. Social distancing? In Manchester? A city that thinks tables are only for dancing and it’s an art to do so and not spill the drinks on. We got hit bad like all major cities, but Covid 19 was one tune even Manchester refused to dance too. What a crap name for a band by the way.
“Manchester kids have the best record collections,” claimed the great Tony Wilson.
Tony knew.
Neath dark, grey skies, sunny sometimes and endless bottles of rain, Manchester has given birth to a million poets, dreamers and singers. Not all you would have heard of. For we do adore the spoken word round here, no need for a stage, just a crowd. Some don’t even need that, a circle of one in their bedroom, let the magic come alive. We don’t need an orchestra, just put a quid or two in the juke box. Three for a quid once upon a time ago. Not sure how much now.
Manchester.
Home of the Busby Babes, the Red Treble, Georgie Best, Aguero’s goal and a blue moon that has now fully risen. A full moon over the gasworks. I can see it from our house. But, let’s see what happens on Saturday, for I’m a red! I believe in 4-4-2, miracles, sunsets, rainbows and last minute goals. I wish upon shooting stars. So, turn up the music, ‘‘Have you seen her have you heard. The way she plays there are no words.’’
Blow that whistle ref, and keep the beer cold and coming. As for who wins? Sir Matt Busby said: “At Manchester United we strive for perfection and if we fail we might just have to settle for excellence.” I hope Sir Matt hasn’t been watching us too much this season. Erik’s last stand? Maybe. For my sakes I hope the reds prevail, but ultimately let this be a message to a watching global audience that our city is the greatest in the world.
Abide with Manchester. (Part Two).
As the band plays take a minute to think of those no longer with us both red and blue. Raise a glass in their memory and be happy in the haze of our drunkest hour!
Sorry Moz, couldn’t resist!
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