#notmurdered - but feel like death

It's a holiday in Mancunia, where the people dress in black - part III

So whatever happened between coming in from the garden and going to bed remains a complete mystery. I wake up in the bed but with the curtains wide open. Listening to people talking about how much booze they have consumed and how drunk they were can be tiresome, I know. Let it suffice to say that a very convivial evening was had. I think. I'm sure.

So when I wake up, squinting in the sunlight, death would be a welcome release. And yet ...

... and yet there is too much to look forward to. Firstly, now the ice is broken, I know I'm in first class company. I knew I would be, I hope my hosts aren't too horrified by the incoherent, stumbling monster I must have become. By magic, it seems, a cuppa has appeared at the bedside. It's very welcome. That's the kind of thoughtfulness I'm talking about. I'm feeling rough. There's no skirting round the fact that I have to make myself sick*. There, I have said it. Emptied and raring to go, the day takes a significant upswing. @CardinalPhink takes me on a stroll to the shops. The sun is blazing. I have my traditional hangover cure - an ice lolly. It's the one that looks a bit like a cock. I don't care. I also exchange that half a ton of coins for notes. Everything's coming up roses.

If there's a finer prospect than a whistlestop pub cultural tour in the blazing sun, followed by a landmark punk rock show, I'm hard-pressed to think what it could be. I like Manchester's suburbs. They are cosmopolitan and vibrant in a way my home is not. For this reason, the bus ride into Manchester feels more like a continental holiday. Living in a beautiful desert blunts your memory of metropolitan life.

The first beer in Trof is divine. It's boiling outside, Trof is cool and shady. Hangover, begone! In the vernacular, I'm sorted. @JelloPuss informs me she's sure there will be a local celeb at the bar of our next stop. I'm intrigued but short of guesses - Mark E Smith? Hooky? Shaun Ryder? Well, I ain't gonna tell ya who it was. Suffice to say it was in Sam's Chop House.



I promised you the best jukebox in the world. It's right there <-------. And this is where it gets a bit creepy. We're on our way, eventually, to see Buzzcocks at the Manchester Apollo. What does the world's best jukebox play as we wait for the first pint @CardinalPhink has had to remortgage the farm for? Buzzcocks - 'Moving Away From The Pulsebeat'. We didn't put it on, it just came on, deus ex machina. I call this 'Buzzcocksicity'. It happens all the time.



Der Mulletmann
Bull's Head, Munich.
Stereotype craving satisfied :-)



Yeah, this is cool. It's a beautiful day, I'm in brilliant, generous company, we have a first class cultural event to look forward to and I have a nice beer buzz going. Things could not be better.

I'm in sporadic contact with a carload of Buzzcocks fans en route from London (Hi Coppo, Lynda, Lester Sands, Jacqui and Oetzi!) and we arrange to meet in the Bull's Head near Piccadilly station, along with @thatandywhite, @JudithR33 et al. I'm particularly keen to chat to Judith as the last time we met, at a Buzzers show in Belfast, I was too busy and then too shy to talk. Idiot! The pub is filling with old punks. It's no surprise where they're heading. We're like wildebeest gathering at a waterhole before the great migration. Feels like home. We hook up with the London contingent at the bus stop. Punk rocknfucking roll ahoy!

I promised you a legend. It'll have to wait until next time ...

In the next instalment - three bands, green bands, icons and underpants.

Read parts one and two of this NW punk rock odyssey.
If you like my writing, please consider giving my novel a go - thanks!

*clarification - the cuppa made by @Jellopuss was lovely, the residual wine, beer, whiskey and vodka was a bad tenant.