OCCUPIED COUNTRY

A Love Supreme

Whew! What a weekend. After the abject fraughtness of the 'mislaid' season tickets - found a mere 4 hours before the first game of the campaign I should add - we decided to spend the evening in Manchester. Eldest and his Darlin' came with us.

We started off at 8.00pm in the The Fringe, a snug little place just over the road from the Band on the Wall. A great little pub with some fabulous foreign beers. Everything from Starpromen to Belgian fruit stuff. Some good old-fashioned bitters and milds as well. Good music also because the juke box was being fed by some proper old hippies. Beards that would put ZZ Top to shame. Clothing that would've embarrassed Wurzel Gummidge. It was fab. I fitted in.

Next up was The Wheatsheaf. A proper old-fashioned pub right in the heart of the Northern Quarter of Manchester. The oldest DJ the world has ever seen was keeping the beat - and mighty fine he was too. Abba, The Pogues, Beatles, Nat King Cole, The Clash. The first DJ I've ever met who recognised his audience's taste. And probably the last. Furthermore the only words he uttered all evening were to thank us for listening and to wish us goodnight. Are you hearing this Steve Wright you talentless twat?

The campest guy in the world ran this place and believe me, he's hit the nail right on the head. It's a triumph. It's like the queer eye for a straight guy decided to sort out a pub. Brilliant.

Later - 12 o clock or so - we walked about 200 yards down Tib Street to Bar Centro. £1 in and 5 minutes later we're enjoying pints of Budvar and listening to some wonderful jazz with a rock beat.

I went to the bar and who do I find myself stood next to but Badly Drawn Boy. I wanted to say hi and let him know how much I've enjoyed his albums, but I couldn't remember the bearded and bobby-hatted bugger's real name.

I could hardly say "alright Badly how you doing" could I.

"Good evening Mr Badly Drawn Boy" also seemed a little formal given the vibe.

Later, as our urine mingled in the downstairs toilets I ventured an "alright mate - did you go to the match today?", Badly being a massive City fan and everything.

I like Badly. Nice to seem him being normal in a bar downtown dressed exactly the same as he always is. Does he ever change?

Good songwriter as well.

Later we were that pissed off trying flag down legitimate taxis, that we resorted to an illegal. As it pulled up it was full of stickers proclaiming the fact that, if hailed in the street without ordering it from the taxi office meant that we were all uninsured.

We spent some time considering this info. All of ten seconds in fact.

"How much mate?"

"A tenner".

"Nice one. Sorted"

I woke up at Eldest and his Darlin's place watching Sky Sports News, listening to Badly and nursing a bottle of Sol. 4.00am it was. Bugger.

Apparently I'd been muttering and chunnering as I snored. Old age. It's a complete and utter bastard isn't it?

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This morning I rose at 12.30pm to be informed we were dining in Manchester and meeting Eldest and his Darlin' at 2.00pm.

Oh God yes, now I remember.

I ended up breakfasting on a Chinese banquet at the very reasonable PanAsia in Chinatown. Hot and sour soup though is not a patch on bacon and eggs believe me. £43 for four of us to stuff our faces for as long as we wanted. Wonderful.

Later, we wondered round Manchester and today she was dressed as though for Whit Week. She was glorious in her finery. Festooned with flowers, buskers and sunshine. Another fine time in one of the greatest cities in the northern hemisphere.

Vinyl Exchange then beckoned. A Fawlty Towers DVD. CDs by Joni Mitchell, some Cuban Guys (for Dearest) and numerous jazzy compilations for the rest of us. Finally back to the frozen north of Manchester and off to t'Willow to meet S, Av, Youngest and Mate. Youngest and Mate had been watching United attempting to beat Chelsea. They failed. Shame.

*Dances round room laughing his balls off*.

A good weekend. A really good weekend.