Alcohol
“For if we don't find the next whisky bar, I tell you we must die. I tell you we must die.” – Jim Morrison
So I meet Nutter at the Student’s Union Bar and he offers to get me a drink. I ask for a Coke and he obliges. I thank him, take a sip and immediately realise something’s missing from it.
“Is this a Pepsi?”
“Nope, pretty sure it’s a Coke,” he replies.
I frown, then after a moment’s contemplation realise what’s wrong with the beverage: there’s no whisky in it.
My train arrived in Manchester around 7pm. I called my brother-from-another, Big Al, and we agreed to meet in Rusholme for a curry. The young scrapper was at the bus stop, beard as bushy as ever, waiting with his flatmate Dan; a foppish love rat, philosophy student, tender of trendy Northern Quarter bars and all-around sound individual. We bought a few cans of beer and headed to a generic Indian restaurant. I neglected my chicken, opting to focus my attentions on my Kronenberg.
Hunger sated/numbed with alcohol, we headed down the street to Saki, a shisha bar. The smoking section was outside and it was a bit nippy, so we sat inside drinking Cuba Libres. We played pool with an eccentric old Scotsman dressed in military fatigues and a skirt and watched some of McFly’s (surprisingly good) “50 Funniest Music Videos” countdown. The sadist in me was filled with glee as the band strained to feign enthusiasm during the corny filler segments. It was a pleasant-enough establishment, but the bar reeked of last night’s vomit and there wasn’t too much in the way of atmosphere, so we hopped on a bus to town.
We headed to Centro in the Northern Quarter, an area that is home to numerous übercool (and hence pricey) bars and cafes. Dan had been working behind the bar at Matt and Phred’s down the street, but had split due to creative differences with his shitty boss and was now pouring drinks for the far more amiable Pete at Centro. So amiable, in fact, that Dan actually wanted to spend his night off at work…then again, it is a bar.
While there, I was reacquainted with Jack Daniels (and his good buddy Coke), Dan’s butterscotch bartendress totty Adisa, velvet-smooth São Paulo geezer Ed and I met dreadlocked biology lecturer Russ – moonlighting as a tapster – for the first time. Good folks, one and all. I also had the pleasure of getting to know Cassie (I coulda, shoulda, woulda), a willowy, mulatto performing artiste and soul aficionado.
We moved onto The Northern when Centro closed at 1am, and there I got further wasted on my faithful tipple of choice and had a major soul music boogie down session with Cassie, Adisa and a bunch of girls I can’t remember. Next was Seven Oaks at 4am, a pub with a late, late licence. I slowed down the drinking as drowsiness began to kick in. I talked about writing with a rather self-satisfied playwright who professed the heady claim of being a personal friend of Lemn Sissay. I also had the pleasure of befriending Alec, a good-natured Mancunian and former Burma relief worker, who invited me to a house party the following night.
Then it was off to Al and Dan’s abode in Fallowfield around 8am, for some noodle-tuna-brown-sauce surprise and a much-needed kip in the spare room.
I crawled out of bed around 3 in the afternoon, washed my face, brushed my sparklers and staggered my way to Trof bar around the corner, where Dan, Al and Russ had already assembled on the balcony for a little pow-wow. Dan received a wasp sting, I drank a cup of tea and then we headed to the Cheshire Cat across the road to take advantage of their beer and a burger offer.
Once there, a drunk, but good-natured middle-aged lady put T-Rex on the jukebox, and then started hitting on Dan (who reminded her of Marc Bolan) before her husband shooed her away from us. Dan bumped into her again a few minutes later, when he stepped out for a cigarette. She told a slightly racist anecdote about her sigh of relief when her son’s mixed race partner gave birth to a son that was white, then followed it up with a hilarious but heart-warming qualifier:
“You must understand, if he were born black as the ace of spades, I’d love him still.”
Thank God for political incorrectness.
While we were eating, my soul brother Imran popped down and we caught up on things, this being my first trip to Mancunia in some 5 months or so. More Kronenberg, then Dan and Al headed back to Centro, Dan to do some work and Al to solve a problem called Maria (a foxy Portuguese girl). We talked footie for a while with quirky Arsenal fan Russ. He then explained that he had lost his house keys and spent the night on Alec’s couch (being nibbled upon by the resident pet rabbit) and so he needed to leave us to see if his housemate was around to let him in.
Imran and I bought some Belgian beer and Kopparberg cider and headed to his place to play each other music (a rare pleasure for us hip-hop heads, as everyone else has awful taste!) I felt a little uncomfortable, as I sensed tension between Imran and his girlfriend Marian. They had clearly been quarrelling, and he kept raising the speaker volume to piss her off. A bit childish, but at least they were good tunes.
Around 9pm I headed to Fuel in nearby Withington to meet my school friend Temwa, who had recently moved to Manchester. I had my second catch up session of the day, accompanied by the house whisky and Coke. I got the impression she hadn’t made too many friends yet and perhaps she would have fun meeting some of my friends, so we headed to the place to be: Centro.
We hung out until closing time with the usual suspects, as well as meeting impish Maria (pink frames on her specs and Doc Martin boots on her feet) and her Spanish friend Patricia; both gorgeous and infectious. More coke and whisky, a bottle of Kopparberg and we were off to Alec’s party.
We stopped on the way for some alcohol. I grabbed an 8-pack of Carlsberg Import, which kept me occupied for the rest of the night. I had a good time, danced to some dub reggae, played Stones records and enjoyed watching Russ spray a bunch of folks with a fire extinguisher. Temwa headed off around 4 and the rest of us made our way home through the Mancunian drizzle around 7.
Sick of alcohol, I only managed a solitary bottle of Kopparberg all day. Consuming a vegan wrap, innumerable cups of milky tea, grilled chicken with rice, some margherita pizza and a can of Lilt, and a Bourne trilogy DVD session were the more memorable happenings on a pretty forgettable day.
Homecoming. Back to reality.
“I don’t ever wanna drink again. I just need a friend.” – Amy Winehouse
