Well, here I am in sunny Manchester, gateway to the sun I am told.
Actually I am in Manchester airport waiting for my flight to Cuba. Manchester is cold, big, wet and busy. My couple of days in a Premier Inn here, getting ready for the holiday, has been quite interesting.
The locals have been extremely friendly throughout.
Ericsson was the night porter at the hotel. He is from Estonia and speaks seven languages! He has traveled throughout Europe for the past several years earning money to build his own house back in his native country. Very interesting guy and so articulate. He works for an extended period, goes home and carries on the building project, with his dad, until funds dry up then off he goes again to earn more! In almost all of the Europian countries it seems. Fascinating, interesting and I just wish I had more time to have spoken.
Stoje, pronounced “stodgy”, is another local from a thousand or so miles East of Wythenshaw. His English is better than mine.
He works in the Trafford centre, a huge shopping complex in Manchester. Crowded shops galore! What recession in the North ? Anyway, Stoje works as a manager in one of the shops cum restaurants there. Talk about friendly! Like Erikson in so many ways but obviously not from the same birthplace as his accent is more Romanian. God, he knew his rugby. He should manage the England team such was his astute appraisal of all the countries and players in the World Cup. What made him and Erikson so alike was the ready smile and the, apparently genuine, appearance to want to help and be friendly.
Madga, I think that was her name, was one of the waitresses who lived nearby and works in the Prem Inn restaurant. Wicked sense of humour for someone from Bosnia. Again a wonderful , friendly attitude. She, like the others took my ribbing in great humour and gave as good as she got in pretty good English.
The mini cab driver who took us into central Manchester on Tuesday had a name I couldn’t pronounce. Mid twenties, heavy accent but still clear English, Black as midnight. His route took us past Old Trafford, home of Manchester United. Pointing at the ground I asked if he was a Red or a Blue. Everyone in Manchester, whether they like football or not has to have an allegiance, either as a United red or the blue of Manchester City. He completely threw me by saying he supported Arsenal!
“What” I asked “is a Black guy in Manchester doing supporting a North London team?”
“Christ knows”, he said, teeth gleaming, ” I always supported them before I came to this country”. We spent the rest of the journey happily laughing at and insulting the two Manchester clubs.
Yes, I’ve enjoyed the Northern friendliness. This influx of ” local ” inhabitants has made Manchester a far more friendly place than I remember it thirty years ago when I last visited. Either the new faces have influenced the mood or perhaps I just never noticed how easy going the Mancs are and they, perhaps, have made the immigrants such a smiley bunch.
Yes, I’ve enjoyed the Northern friendliness. Apart from just one or two of the more local locals. Unfortunately summed up, I think, by Katriana.(? Or so her name tag read). Obviously born somewhere near Trafford Park, she had a face like a smacked arse and a mouth permanently pointing to her feet. I couldn’t understand a word she said in a blunt northern accent. Apart from the obligatory northern greeting of “yerolrite?”. She condescended to serve me my order of two coffees with a mere sneer. Or perhaps it was just the chewing of gum that gave the impression of sneering.
Whatever, the two coffees at two pounds each sent her, mumbling, away to fetch a calculator.
Made me, as a mere Londoner, feel “reet at ‘ome luv”