Lo and Behold

Well that was a turn up for the books. As I peeked out of the bedroom window at 6:30am on Easter Sunday I saw a good three inches of snow covering everything. Deep. Crisp. Even.

So up I got, packed the camera and walked round to our local beauty spot. Everywhere I looked I saw photo opportunities as this Mancunian suburb of mine put on its best clothes and smiled for a picture or two. I took my obligatory shot of the Manchester city centre skyline from a nearby vantage point and slid my way to Daisy Nook.

I was out for just over two hours and I walked for about five miles. All-in-all a great way to start the day. As the sun got higher the snow began to melt and I felt it was time to head home to bacon and eggs and a steaming mug of tea. Bliss.

Not many people about - just a few hardy souls with dogs to walk and other poor sods with jobs that make them work on Easter Sunday. Even postman get that off. An old fellow with a bright red face and a week's stubble told me to hurry up as the snow wouldn't last and I should take as many pictures as I could. So I did. Snaps below.

Incidentally Goldfrapp's new album is a pastoral masterpiece. Download it now.
















Thought I'd try a different treatment on this one.

Sign in Stranger

So, a chapter closes and the Royal Mail Group sails off into the distance. I have started my new job as an Oracle systems administrator and I'm loving it. I have been welcomed, given all the help I need and treated like a human being worthy of a modicum of respect.

Praise be.

I am stationed on the 10th floor with some fabulous views over the city, the Pennines and the Cheshire plain and life just feels right.

In fact the only blot on the horizon (literally) is the view on the left for, as I look out of the windows I also have to look at Old Trafford in all its hideous glory. Still, it's a small price to pay.

I enjoyed myself this morning as the Royal Mail have sent me a questionnaire so they can "better understand" why I left. Cathartic I can tell you. A written explosion of all that's pent up within me over the months. Inadequate, insular, Dickensian.....I could on...and probably will one day. But not now. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.

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I'm currently reading marvellous Post-War history of Britain "A World to Build". It's part of a projected series entitled "Tales of a New Jerusalem" that will eventually take the reader to 1979.

It's wonderful.

For the most part the author relies on the archives of the Mass Observation Project and, as such, is based on the diaries kept by ordinary folk - as well as the usual suspects - from all over the country. As a result of these apparently prosaic setting down of ordinary thoughts, a truly illuminating history shines through. We discover just how much of a damp squib the VE Day celebrations were everywhere except the West End of London for example. The little things that occurred on momentous days in history. The ending of a relationship, a man striking matches trying to find a shilling he has dropped and complaining that they don't last long enough. The wonder of seeing well-lit streets after years of blackout.

It's hard to believe it's the same country we inhabit. Consider this:-

"Britain in 1945. No supermarkets, no motorways, no teabags, no sliced bread, no frozen food, no flavoured crisps, no lager, no microwaves, no dishwashers, no Formica, no vinyl no CDs, no computers, no mobiles, no duvets, no Pill, no trainers, no hoodies, no Starbucks. Four Indian restaurants. Shops on every corner, pubs on every corner, cinemas in every high street, red telephone boxes, Lyons Corner Houses, trams, trolley-buses, steam trains. woodbines, Craven 'A', Senior Service, smoke, smog, Vapex inhalant. No launderettes, no automatic washing machines, wash day every Monday, clothes boiled in a tub, scrubbed on the draining board, rinsed in the sink, put through a mangle, hung out to dry. Central heating rare, coke boilers, water geysers, the coal fire, the hearth, the home, chilblains common. Abortion illegal, homosexual relationships illegal, suicide illegal, capital punishment legal. white faces everywhere. Back-to-backs, narrow cobbled streets, Victorian terraces, no high-rises,. Arterial roads, suburban semis, the march of the pylon. Austin Sevens, Ford Eights, no seat belts, Triumph motorcycles with sidecars. A Bakelite wireless in the home, 'Housewives Choice' or 'Worker's Playtime' or 'ITMA' on the air, televisions almost unknown, no programmes to watch, the family eating together. Milk of Magnesia, Vick Vapour rub, Friar's Balsom, Fynnon Salts, Eno's, Germoline. Suits and hats, dresses and hats, cloth caps and mufflers, no leisurewear, no 'teenagers'. Heavy coins, heavy shoes, heavy suitcases, heavy tweed coats, heavy leather footballs, no unbearable lightness of being. Meat rationed, butter rationed, lard rationed, margarine rationed, sugar rationed, tea rationed, cheese rationed, jam rationed, eggs rationed, sweets rationed, soap rationed. Make do and mend."

Recommended.

I had a 'lump in the throat' moment reading it the other day though as I found myself thinking 'I'll lend this my Dad he'd love it'.

Times like that bring back the reality. Ah well. Life goes on and the last gift of love is remembrance.

Right I'm off to watch Sven's Blue and White army take on ex-City player Gary Megson's Bolton Wanderers on the Big Screen in my local with many other like-minded folk. After the match we've got a curry ordered from a great Indian vegetarian we've discovered in Ashton-under-Lyne. So it's Chana Masala with Jeera rice and a Naan for me as I settle down for an evening of TV watching.

Here's some more photographs:-

























That's all folks!

I Bleed For You

The body of a controversial mystical monk who became a saint was today exhumed from his grave 40 years after his death and his corpse was said to be "intact".

Padre Pio claimed to suffer from stigmata or the wounds of Christ - holes in his hands and feet where the nails were used at the Crucifixion - and was made a saint by Pope John Paul II in 2002.

He enjoyed a massive following with thousands visiting him and even today, years after his death he has millions of devotees around the world and he is especially popular with Italian celebrities such as Sophia Loren and Andrea Bocelli.

Exhumed: The body of Padre Pio, who claimed to bleed from his hands like the crucified Christ, will go on public display so the faithful can venerate the man made a saint in 2002

Early this morning his grave at the monastery at San Giovanni Rotondo near Foggia in southern Italy where he was buried was entered and his coffin lifted from the ground and opened.

The exhumation was authorised by the Vatican in January and was granted so that Padre Pio's body could be "prepared" when it is put on public display next month to commemorate the anniversary of his death 40 years ago.

Local Archbishop monsignor Domenico D'Ambrosio, who was present at the exhumation, said: "The upper part of the skull was skeletal while the forehead was in perfect condition.

"The rest of the body is also well preserved. You can clearly see the beard, knees, hands, the nails - if Padre Pio will forgive me it's as if he has just had a manicure.

"The signs of the stigmata are not visible. The robes are also still intact and his feet are visible because as is customary capuchin monks are buried shoeless."

Despite the early hour and the biting cold a small crowd who had gathered outside the church cheered and clapped when news that the coffin had been exhumed filtered through.

Besides local church dignitaries medical experts from the Vatican's Congregation for the Causes of Saints were also present to verify the state of the corpse.

The saint's body is planned to be displayed for several months, after which it will be returned to the tomb in Santa Maria delle Grazie church in San Giovanni Rotondo, which neighbours the friary where Saint Pio lived.

When news of the exhumation was announced in January monsignor D'Ambrosio had said:"I am convinced that we all have the duty to allow future generations the chance to venerate the mortal remains of Saint Pio of Pietrelcina and to conserve them as well as possible."

Initially there was opposition from Padre Pio's family but they later gave the go ahead although there was a last minute appeal from the Padre Pio association to block the exhumation.

The saint was shunned by church authorities and recognised only after massive popular devotion to him.

He is especially popular in Australia and Ireland.

Padre Pio's shrine draws close to one million pilgrims each year, and the hospital he founded in San Giovanni Rotondo is one of the biggest in southern Italy.

In October last year an Italian author published a book claiming that the stigmata were faked and there was evidence in the Vatican archives to prove this.

However officials in Rome dismissed the suggestion and insisted their own investigations had ruled that the wounds were not caused by "external forces."

I am sat here dumbstruck. When I posted about the possibility of this occurring a couple of weeks ago I never for one moment thought they would actually do it.

Thank God I'm a Pastafarian. (Irony alert!)

I'm Free!

Oh yes. I'm FREE. FREE I tells yer!

Thursday morning at around 10:00am. I was knee deep in unsorted mail. My mobile rang: withheld number. I've had this before - when the body who are interested in employing me phoned to arrange an interview back in January. Now normally I don't pick up "withheld" calls but I took a chance.

It was a job offer.

I accepted there and then, before calmly re-entering the sorting office, sorting the eight ton of mail that lay there, going for a wee and then handing in my notice. It was ORGASMIC.

Management wanted to know why I was leaving. I told them. Shit job. Shit pay. Not part-time as promised. Mail not sorted as promised. Inadequate and frankly Neanderthal members of the management team. In short, a business heading for the skids at a rate of knots.

So, come Friday I will be posting my last bit of pointless junk mail before hanging up my bag and beginning to enjoy life again. A life where things like weekends once again exist. A life where I'm not sat twiddling my thumbs on a Tuesday because it's my day off. A life where my work mates may just be able to grasp concepts as far removed from Celebrity this, that and the other as possible.

In short; a life.

Not a lot to ask really is it?

The Royal Scam

There are a few things I've learned over the past few months as I've got pissed wet through sticking junk mail, glossy mags and the occasional letter through the front doors of the North West. One of the main things I have learned is that "those with the smallest letterboxes tend to subscribe to the bulkiest periodicals."

And fucking annoying it is too.

You would be surprised just how many doors from the 30s, 40s, 50s and 60s still exist out there. Letterboxes from a bygone era. An era when A4 envelopes didn't exist. An era when gossamer-thin Airmail letters were de rigueur as the post-war dash to Australia, Canada and South Africa took root throughout the bombed out cities of this Sceptered Isle.

Now try getting a Viking catalogue through that. Or a Sky magazine. Or 95% of the pointless crap that's gets shoved through front doors these days.

After folding and bending and barking your knuckles and fingers trying to force the things through - multiplied a thousand-fold as the round progresses - your arms hang like string at your side.

But at least you can bask in the warm glow you feel knowing you're providing an essential service to the good folk of the neighbourhood. I mean how else would they receive information about savings to be made from Insurance companies, mobile phone providers, satellite TV providers. private medical companies, Nationwide pub chains...etc...etc...etc?

Fulfilling I tells yer. Fulfilling.

Still not for much longer. ;-)

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Last Saturday evening the local quiz team had its annual feast. This is a tradition going back six or seven years now. Any money we win on "Play Your Cards Right" (after the quiz has finished), we put in a pool and whoever has been in the team over the previous year is entitled to a meal from the cash.

This year we decided to go Brazilian (quiet at the back). Pau Brasil is an authentic new addition to the increasingly diverse nightlife of Manchester.

It was great. Highly recommended though vegetarians should probably give it a miss. Basically, for £20 a head, you help yourself to salads, veg and a few hot dishes while waiters come round with huge skewers of beef, lamb, chicken and fish. For two hours you can eat as much as you want and the only extras are for your drinks which are priced at the usual central Manchester rates - around £3.50 for a pint of Staropramen. What was already a great night was improved even more when, at the very next table, three of City's new superstars sat down with their families. Geovanni, Nery Castillo and Elano . Don't start mithering them I instructed Dearest, they're out for a quiet night before we play Everton on Monday evening. Give them some space.

Ten minutes later I went to the loo. Apparently, while I was away, Dearest instructed the rest of our team not to tell me about what she was about to do, whereupon she immediately waved at the trio cooing "Elano, Geovanni and....errr". Nery Castillo hadn't blipped on her radar at this point. She knew he was a player but that was it. To be fair they waved and smiled back and she shook Geovanni's hand as he was the closest. At this point I reappeared unaware of what had happened. I found out later when Youngest spilled the beans but by that time Dearest was well away. C'est la vie.

Still, it's a good advert fro a Brazilian restaurant if it's full of Brazilians and apparently the City lot are in there every other week.

And I won't blame them filling their faces on the fact that Everton took all three bloody points!

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Snap time.


The 'Air Shard' at the Northern War Museum.


The 'Air Shard' from Salford Quays.


The view from the 'Air Shard' looking over Salford Quays.


The new 'Media City', soon to be home of BBC Radio FiveLive. Salford Quays.


From Manchester, Victoria towards Liverpool.


The Manchester Wheel reflected in the Urbis building.

I Think I'm Going Back (again)

Well I've waited a long, long time to see City win at Old Trafford but I have to admit, if you're going to do it, do it when the World's media are in attendance waiting for a pre-ordained scenario that should have gone something like this:-

Scuffles before the game due to inappropriate and offensive chanting from the vile and loathsome City fans.

A disgraceful and shaming disruption of the minute's silence by the vile and loathsome City fans.

A stunning display of all the best that football can offer from "The World's Greatest Football Team" as the frankly amateurish Manchester City roll over and are tonked 6-0 after a master display in footballing skills from the mighty Ronaldo.

Disgraceful scenes after the game as the vile and loathsome City fans vent their frustrations on the elderly, toddlers and disabled leaving Old Trafford.

*snigger*

I bet there was a whole host of journalists frantically retyping copy on Sunday evening. All the pre-match build up was aimed at how City fans would disrupt the silence. All the predictions were how United would stuff us. All wrong but now we're damned with faint praise as the emphasis turns to the fact that nobody should be congratulated for respecting a minute's silence and United were overawed by the "sense of occasion".

Sometimes you just can't win.

Still, an easy six points ;-)

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Wahey! I've got another interview tomorrow with Manchester City Council so everybody cross their fingers for me. Anything to get out of this back-breakingly tedious job. I may be physically a lot fitter but my mental health is suffering with each day that passes. I'M A REASONABLY INTELLIGENT PERSON. GET ME OUT OF HERE!

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Anyway it's my day off tomorrow. What shall I do (apart from my interview - which isn't until 6:00pm). Probably something photographic, followed - after the interview - with something alcoholic.

I'll sign off with pics again as this has now apparently become a quasi-photoblog.


Time passing by at the speed of light.


Pools of light in Victoria Station bar. 2 Megapixel cameraphone.


Underground car park, Manchester.


Victoria Station in the late afternoon February sunshine.


Manchester Evening News Arena steps in the afternoon February sunshine.


Is that my bus?


Spinningfields, Manchester.


High rise 19th century v high rise 21st century. The Great Northern Railway warehouse and the Beetham Tower.

Turbulent Indigo

Today was my day off and you know what? I spent most of it thinking about the fact that I have got to go back to work tomorrow. That's bad. This bloody job is beginning to take over all my waking hours. It's a PART TIME job fer Christ's sake, a mere bagatelle. It should occupy a smidgeon of my waking hours but I hate it that much it's beginning to drag me down.

On the plus side, the HR dept of my potential new employers have phoned to let me know that they will be making me a job offer when they receive my references. On the negative side, they've written to my current employers asking for a reference. So now they know I'm trying to get out of the place just what sort of crap can I expect before I finally bugger off?

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I got a mention on Manchizzle which describes this blog as a photoblog. Thanks to Tony for the heads up.) I'm happy with that for that's what it seems to be becoming. In fact most days I'm taking photographs. I seem to be driven to do little else at the moment. You could say it's becoming almost an obsession. Still, it's a good obsession, an obsession that helps me forget my bloody job.

I've inherited a decent little 2 megapixel cameraphone as well (Sony Ericsson K750i) so I now have a camera at all times. I am a camera.

Today, after spending the morning being pissed off at my employment predicament, I decided to take my camera off somewhere different and did a lurk on t'Internet and discovered the panopticons of Lancashire. But which one to head for? In the end I plumped for the Singing Ringing Tree just above Burnley. It was great. I love public art and public art like this is just exquisite. With fabulous views of Burnley (I could see right into Turf Moor Stadium), Pendle Hill and the surrounding countryside. It's a beautiful place to relax and unwind while the wind blows away the crap in your head and provides the musical drone that sets the scene for the meditation that follows. It was bloody cold up there though and soon the rain started so, after forty five minutes snapping away as I listened to the Æolian music the tree produced, I quickly legged it a damp quarter of a mile, got back in the car and had a little drive round the sodden towns of this lovely part of Lancashire. I intend to visit all of these structures over the next few months. Brilliant.

So, without further ado, some pics. (Incidentally, if you click on the pics it will take you through to my Flickr page where you can view them full size - if you want to of course.)


The Singing Ringing Tree.


The Singing Ringing Tree solarised.


And again.


A wet dry stone wall, Burnley.


Frost on my windscreen. Taken with my cameraphone. Ain't technology wonderful?


On my way to work Saturday 2nd Feb 2008. 2 megapixel cameraphone.


Library Walk, Manchester.


Door, Manchester Cathedral.


The Printworks reflected in the rain. Manchester.


Mancunian rain.


Candles in The Old Wellington pub. 2 megapixel cameraphone.