It’s time to leave London again, so it’s off to Euston and then get the train north for the triennial get-together of the Manchester University Wallflower Club. I’ve decided to withdraw from some of the communal events: the snooker tournament at Rileys in Chorlton-Cum-Hardy; the, see who can eat the most food contest at the Premier Inn, eat as much as you like breakfast buffet; and the, see who can drink the most alcohol at the Briton’s Protection pub late night booze up. I’m about the same age as all the other delegates but I feel too old now to take part in all these dangerous competitive sports so, instead, I’m going to use the chance of this long weekend away to check out the art of the new, would-be Northern Powerhouse.
As a student in Manchester, forty-plus years ago, the train journey from London used to take about three hours but now, according to my Virgin train timetable, it’s down to only two, and I’m quite impressed at the improvement. Sadly, on my particular journey, there are problems with the overhead line equipment which means a diversion via Birmingham and I’m back to doing the more familiar three-hour ride. When I finally get to Manchester Piccadilly, I pick up a compensation form for the delayed journey and also a little visitors’ guide – and, naturally, turn to the section marked Galleries, Museums and Attractions. The seven recommended highlights include: an ice rink, a greyhound stadium, a football museum, two football stadium tours and the Bali Health Lounge. It strikes me as rather an odd selection and they evidently have a different understanding of what culture’s all about since none of these places is on my own personal itinerary Of course, as soon as I exit the station it starts to rain, although, to be fair, it’s the kind of light drizzle that only a soft southerner like me would bother to get their umbrella out for. I don’t think that any of the locals have even noticed this wet stuff falling from the sky.
After registering at the hotel, unpacking and having a recuperative snooze, I venture out and now the rain really is sheeting down so I curtail my evening stroll and scuttle into Gaucho’s Deansgate looking forward to testing my teeth on one of their fine Argentinian steaks. But I don’t get further than the foyer – the jazz muzak welcome is so overpowering that I turn on my heels and head for the exit. All I want is somewhere dry to sit and a bit of meat to gnaw on, I don’t want Don Cherry trying to blast his way through one ear drum and out the other. Luckily, next door is an alternative link on the food chain in the form of Cote and the welcome here is more appropriately subdued. I have a g&t, then some onion soup, followed by the pork belly with cabbage and potatoes au gratin, and rounded off with a chocolate pudding and ice cream. As is customary for someone who knows nothing about wine, I look at the whites and pick a bottle of the second cheapest. I’m sticking with reviewing art rather than food so all I’ll say about the meal was that the pud wasn’t hot enough but the rest of the food was ok and, diluted with the wine meant that I left the place full and contented, if a bit wobbly. Walking down Oxford Road with the light from the traffic shining in puddles, like the opening credits to Taxi Driver, I close my eyes and I’m twenty again, dashing away from a screening of Fellini’s 8 ½ at the university film society en route to the Free Trade Hall to see Soft Machine play. I feel like I’m in a episode of Life on Mars.