Trip! (Parte the First)

Well here I am, still recovering from the absolutely monumental weekend I’ve had. It were fantastic. It were unbelievable. It’s going down in history as The Best Weekend in Living Memory.

“Why?” I hear you ask. Well, let me tell you.

Saturday: train to dear ol’ Manchester, drink, surprise pub success, drink, walking the cobbles, drink, food, drink, and Arctic Monkeys.

Sunday: train to’t beach (and we’re talking the wondrous conglomeration of fun that is Blackpool Pleasure Beach), drink, rides, drink, sun, drink, beachfront, drink, trams, drink, cockles, drink, midnight train fiasco. Oh, and drink.

Monday: Metrolink to’t Museum of Science and Industry, Doctor Who Up Close Exhibit, Museum of Science and Industry Air and Space Hall, drink, walk the cobbles, drink, Deansgate, drink, Castlefield, drink, get lost in Piccadilly, drink, train out of Manchester, BIG drink.

Utterly fab. Completely marvellous. Wait, wait, wait, let’s back up and explain.

Saturday train – sleepin ont way, iPod charged, fab. Surprise pub success: The Rembrandt. If yer ever lucky enough to get to the centre of Manchester and want somewhere to stay where the people are friendly, the drink’s not too expensive and especially if you don’t mind being the only straight in the village, then The Rembrandt on Sackville Street (read ‘corner of Canal Street’) is the place for you. The staff were lovely, the beds were fantastic and the full English int morning absolutely bang-on. Good prices and good times.

Saturday night – good and bad times, unfortunately. Got to the LCCG (Old Trafford Cricket Ground, fert rest of us) int afternoon, and began the fifty-minute queue fert beer counter. Yeah, you read that right – fifty minutes. And in all that time, police turned up and tried to ‘calm the queue’ by standing at back and stopping more people from pushing into the back. Literally. If me and Granny W hadn’t been so wide, we would have been trampled, of that I’ve no doubt whatsoever. One bastard actually tried to skip round us, thinking he could jump the queue, but Granny W put him in his place. Physically. Well, he were a first-class wanker and she’s a Scot. Not a good combination, eh.

Anyway, gig itself were proper fab – missed Amy Winehouse (damn!) and Coral (meh), but got there in time for a thirty minute CD selection that I swear to Sean they’d nicked from me iPod. Suffice to say: ace. Then Arctic Monkeys themselves come trundling on stage to the tune of Rocky. Bloody marvellous.

What followed were about, ooh, I don’t know, praps two hours of sheer pleasure. We jumped up and down, shouted along to the songs, sang, and drank. Oh, and a load of un-funny wankers chucked half-full waxed paper cups of beer over the crowd. Nice. We did enjoy shouting the retaliatory: ‘You do that again an’ bloody well come back there and stamp on all yer man-toys! And no, I’m not talking about yer Transformers!’ But we did not enjoy getting doused in beer and rather warm, ammonia-smelling former-beer over the next couple of hours. However, the boys ‘emselves were fab, and we jumped around and had a great time. We even joined in wi the cheeky Yorkshire v Lancs chant (I’d like to think Lancs won), but did not join in wi the ‘you’re not singing any more’ song when the purr wee lads experienced a power cut. Cos obviously, she writes sarcastically, they meant for that to happen. Anyway, it were all sorted in a matter of minutes and they were back on track.

This is turning into an essay. I’ll leave it there, I think, and work out what I’m going to write next time… I’m thinking… Praps more Arctic Monkeys, and The Beach, the Pork Sandwich incident, the ‘Dude!’ incident, and of course, the ‘Doctor bloody Who’ exhibit – which does include stroking, giggling and squeeeing.

Until next time then.

Soopytwist.

Tags:
Doctor Who ~ Manchester ~ Blackpool ~ gay village ~ Arctic Monkeys