Manchester United vs Manchester City - The Community Shield at Wembley

"Watch carefully Carlitos.. Index finger into mouth, without touching the sides.."

Just as football fans were teetering on the brink of insanity, the football season has finally returned in the shape of what could be the most explosive curtain-raiser in recent memory, the all Manchester Community Shield at Wembley.

Manchester United, the league champions, take on Manchester City, their conquerors and eventual winners of last year’s FA Cup in the inaugural match of the 2011/12 season.

Often derided as being nought but a meaningless friendly, this years season opener comes with a host of tasty subplots and intrigue, and of course the local derby tribalism which makes it impossible for this match to be regarded as unimportant corporate fodder.

In their three bouts last season, United gained the upper hand in the league, recording a 2-1 win at Old Trafford, memorable only for Wayne Rooney’s spectacular overhead kick, and being held to a forgettable draw at Eastlands, while City claimed FA Cup glory in eliminating their fierce rivals courtesy of a dramatic Yaya Toure goal at Wembley.

Roberto Mancini’s City team are still flush from ending that thirty five year wait for a trophy, and gearing up for the most important season in the club’s history as they embark on their first Champions League campaign. The anticipated influx of big-money names has yet to materialise, with the exception of the diminutive Argentine ace Sergio Agüero, but the feeling remains that City will be title-contenders under the Italian’s stewardship this season.

Manchester United, despite their outlay of close to £50M on young stars David De Gea, Phil Jones and Ashley Young, have also had a relatively low-key pre-season but only a fool would seriously discount them from being a major force in both league and cup this year.

With Manchester clubs representing both teams in the Community Shield for the first time, a fierce sense of pride in their city will no doubt consume most Mancunians, though you’d be naïve to anticipate any sort of mutual appreciation or camaraderie amongst the two sets of fans.

After all, whether this is a meaningless showcase or a legitimate means to silverware, it remains a Manchester derby, and no matter what the stage or the occasion, no team will ever roll over in this fixture.

Tim Harvey

On Yer Bike, Kompis!

Even on his day off, Moses couldn't resist parting something

There are of course many differences between Sweden and the United Kingdom, the first and most obvious being that Sweden, or Sverige in Swedish, sounds significantly less self-important.  Is it any wonder the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is so maligned around the world with a name as pompous and long-winded as that?

Another more subtle difference is the inclusion in almost all Swedish kitchens I have encountered of the humble cheese shaver.  Not the cumbersome cheese graters you’ll find in most British households but the cheese shaver, a simple tool designed to shave off handsome slivers of cheese which you can then drape onto your sandwich.  It also works on cucumber, so two birds and all that jazz…


Perhaps the most startling difference between Sweden and the UK (knighthood for Mr. Acronym!), though, is Sweden’s dependency on bicycles.

Cycle lanes in the UK are exhausting to contemplate.  They smack of political correctness, of council approval.  With only road-kill for company, the pathos of their existence is there for all to see, each little painted bicycle symbol a reminder of the folly they represent.  Not to mention they are as narrow as the rules will allow and brazenly ignored by even the most discerning of motorists.

Should a cyclist ever have the temerity to actually use a cycle lane in the UK then they know they are playing with fire, and could at any moment become a statistic at the hands of a lazy taxi driver who thinks that ‘cycle lane’ is a setting on his washing machine.

Not so in Sweden.  The Swedes love cycling and Sweden loves them to cycle.  Over here the term cycle lane doesn’t really do justice to the service provided to cyclists.  Here the cyclists exist in total harmony with motorists, gleefully hurtling along the bicycle highways which run adjacently, and in no way inferiorly to the roads.  There are two lanes as per, say, your average road, and even delightfully thoughtful signposts to other surrounding townships.

While cycling around Lund (which is a previous winner of best cycle town in Sweden) you could often be forgiven for thinking you’d strayed into Hobbiton, such is the labyrinthine nature of the paths which you are free to whiz along, with the added bonus of having gorgeous Skanian countryside to gawk at as you do so.

Enthusing as I am about this cycling utopia, it would be easy to slip into a reverie and start imagining a world where there are no longer any cars, trucks or any other CO2-belching monstrosities, but only bicycles.  In this world of whirring bike chains and clicking gears, puncture repair would be added to the kindergarten syllabus and the salubrious smell of WD40 would become omnipresent.

In this world, I can think of only two flies which could seriously jeopardise the ointment.  The first is the risk to the hitherto unmentioned pedestrian.  As until recently I was more often than not a pedestrian myself (more on that later), I can attest that in a society where the cycle rules, the pedestrian faces a tricky existence.  Perhaps as a newcomer to Sweden I am merely not yet accustomed to identifying cycle lane from footpath. Maybe it’s something I’ll just get used to, but in the unrelenting hullabaloo of downtown Malmo I found myself hopping from the path of oncoming cyclists so often that I began to hear cycle bells tinkling in my sleep.

The next stumbling block is the unprecedented crime rate which comes with a society abundant with bicycles.

In 2010, the Swedish Crime Survey reported that 60, 500 bicycle thefts had been recorded by police in 2010 alone.  Of these 60, 500 thefts, 1% was cleared up.

Though these statistics make concerning viewing, it does represent a slight decline in bicycle theft over the last ten years.  That said, I get the impression that were those statistics in the UK there would be mass hysteria about bike thieves gone wild.  The tabloids would no doubt claim that the crimes were related to the production of a new class-A street drug and, before long, the anti-immigration lot would jump on it and erroneously claim that someone foreign was up to something.

In Sweden, or at least in the portion of Sweden that I am most familiar with, Skane, there seems to be a far more laissez faire attitude to the situation.  In Malmo and Lund especially, people seem to almost accept that their bikes could go a-wandering at any time.

This no doubt explains why the majority of people cycle around on what could most accurately be described as rust buckets.  ‘If it goes, then it goes’, seems to be the mentality in Sweden and, compared to the mentality of ‘the bigger and shinier the better’ which the UK adopts, this is actually most refreshing.

I myself have been looking for a bike recently and was advised by friends that student ads would be the best place to look.  After a few weeks looking around it seemed to me that the going rate for a bog-standard bike here is about 500 SEK.

Responding to an ad in Konsum for a bike priced exactly that, I was soon in possession of my first Swedish rust bucket.

Making the leap from terrorised pedestrian to maniacal cyclist was as smooth a transition as I could have hoped for, and I was soon admonishing the slightest pedestrian infraction with a merry tinkling of my bell.

I have taken an immediate fondness to my new two-wheeled accomplice, and so was greatly annoyed last week to find a plucky, drunken man carefully examining my bike outside Malmo’s Triangeln station.  Assuming he wasn’t admiring the two tone rust effect on my chassis, I, in a vain attempt not to betray my meek nature, challenged him.

What ensued was the usual confusing mix of Swedish and English exchanges before the man, quite brilliantly ignoring the fact I had just caught him trying to steal my property, asked me for a lift to Malmo’s Mollan district.

Taken aback, I waited for any sign of abashment in his twinkling drunken eyes, any sign that this might potentially be a situation he would look back on someday and cringe with embarrassment at, and, when seeing there was none to be found, said: “Go on then pal, hop on”.

Denmark bans Marmite

Marmite, so good the Danes hate to see it anywhere within their borders

The news that Denmark has this week banned Marmite caused widespread panic among British expat’s in Denmark, but Tim Harvey reveals the consequences could be much further reaching…

Since I emigrated to Malmö just over a month ago, I have often, from the lofty position that is the eleventh floor of my apartment, contemplated the beautiful land that is Denmark glinting at me from across 500 metres of bitterly cold Baltic Sea.  I have laughed and reminisced at length about great parties in Copenhagen, and discussed the virtues of a country whose inhabitants seem almost impossibly well-mannered and carefree.

So why, then, does the same view now cause a sickening knot to twist in my stomach, debilitating me and forcing me to quickly draw the blinds? Why does the land that once emanated so much warmth and conviviality now seem angry, loveless and ensconced in the unforgiving clutches of my antipathy? The answer is simple: Denmark, to my immeasurable anguish, has banned my favourite foodstuff, Marmite.

The savoury spread has become so synonymous with the mantra ‘you either love it or hate it’, you suspect that it is only a matter of time before the definition of ambivalence is replaced in the dictionary by the words ‘See. Marmite’.  Those who hate it react to the slightest taste of it by spluttering, gasping for water and generally pulling a face like a 17th century gargoyle.  They talk about it in the same reproachful, venomous way that they would talk about Al Qaeda, the congestion charge or Gary Glitter. 

Those who love it can talk about it breezily, and affectionately, in the way that you would expect someone to discuss their favourite childhood cartoon series, and are at once capable of launching an impassioned defence of the delicious, salty spread to any curmudgeonly detractor.

But it is the added vitamins contained within yeast extract (Marmite’s official, periodic table name, commonly abbreviated to YE. It‘s next to Einsteinium)  that have irked the Danish government into adding Marmite to the list of substances in it’s naughty book, alongside Bovril and Marmite’s feral cousin, Vegemite.  These added vitamins, the Danish government would have you believe, contain malicious chemicals which are capable of causing a great deal of harm to all whom they meet.

To say that this been met with opprobrium by the ex-pats who currently call Denmark home would be like saying that Jewish people tend to look back at the holocaust with disdain.  There has been outright fury from Marmite consumers all over Denmark who have not let geography hinder their consumption of the vitamin-B-rich spread.  Apoplectic messages have appeared all over internet forums from defiant Marmite fans who promise that the Danish authorities will have to pry open their cold, lifeless fingers in order to snatch away what for many of them is the ultimate home comfort.  Tit-for-tat retaliation has even been mooted in some quarters, with a blanket ban on Danish bacon and Carlsberg export being suggested as the perfect riposte to these newfangled sanctions.

Why does this concern an expatriate living in Sweden though, I hear you ask.  Has there been rumblings about a similar ban being introduced in Sweden? Are we about to see the kind of blatant Scandinavian supporting vote more commonly associated with the latter stages of the Eurovision Song Contest?  Or have clandestine Danish officials infiltrated Sweden’s top brass, bribing them into mirroring the ban in the first act of a greater coercive movement which could eventually spell doom for Marmite on a global scale? Well, no, not really.

In fact, it seems that Sweden’s reputation for harmony and tolerance is still very much intact, at least on the Marmite front (The Marmite Front, incidentally, being the name of a group of fanatical Marmite fans who have been suggesting the most extreme acts of revenge. NB. Not to be confused with the United Front of Marmite, who are an altogether more docile organisation).  No, the cause of my unease is that for me, and anyone who lives in Skåne, it is far easier to travel to Sweden via Copenhagen, and that raises all manner of problems.  Though I have only been in Sweden a month, I have already exhausted my first batch of rations which, owing to the 35 kilos of other stuff in my baggage, was the most I could manage to bring on my first trip.  These rations included a box of Jaffa Cakes (which are available at Netto, proving the folly of this rash inclusion), some English Breakfast teabags (another unwise selection, given the wide availability of English tea in Sweden) and of course, a lovely pot of Marmite.

I lasted a good three days without the black stuff before I realised I was teetering on the brink of insanity, and was forced to visit a shop devoted to providing for British expatriates in Malmo.  Purchasing the smallest pot I could, my Marmite hit was satisfied, though my wallet was left bloodied and bruised by the encounter.  I knew this was not a long term solution. Not if I still harboured hopes of keeping the wolves from the door every month.

My plan had been to head back to the UK in June and, on my return, stow as much Marmite in my luggage as physically possible, in the hope of lasting until my next return home.  I’ll admit to patting myself on the back for conceiving what seemed such a watertight system. As far as spanners in the works go, the Danish government have well and truly reset the bar.  They’ve swatted aside my childish solution with a scornful sneer. “Nice try, son.”

In light of Denmark announcing, as recently as last week, that they are set to renew border control measures to Sweden, this leaves me with few, if any, options… It appears that I am going to have to take a leaf out of Howard Marks’ book, Mr. Nice.  In order to satisfy my Marmite lust, I am either going to have to become perhaps the world’s first Marmite smuggler, or I am going to have to, on finishing my last pot, section myself for fear of harming those around me in a kind of maniacal rage that would frighten the horrific zombies of 28 Days Later into sitting down and having a glass of milk.

Denmark, I loved you like no other, but you have broken the heart of a man with only the most modest of needs.  If you have a rethink any time soon, you’ll find me sat in my room, blinds drawn, hoping for a cloudy day. Need I suggest the perfect reconciliation gift?

Suck It And See (2011)

Suck It And See is the Arctic Monkeys' follow-up to 2009's Humbug

With 2009’s Humbug, Arctic Monkeys flaunted a versatility that few could’ve anticipated from the pimply scallywags who gave us Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not. With their new album, Suck It And See, they’ve once again thrown caution to the wind by whomping out some riffs that’d make Dave Grohl choke on his Cheerios.

If Humbug was an eerie, often melancholic reminder of Alex Turner’s lyrical prowess and sardonic wit, then Suck It And See is a timely affirmation of Arctic Monkeys’ status as one of the world’s most exciting bands.

That said, their fourth offering begins at somewhat pedestrian pace, especially when compared with ‘My Propeller’ and ‘Brianstorm’, the explosive curtain-raisers from their previous two albums.

Opener ‘She’s Thunderstorms’ meanders predictably, while second track ‘Black Treacle’ also fails to lurch into second gear.  ‘She’s Thunderstorms’ is particularly reminiscent of wistful Arctic Monkeys’ classics ‘Mardy Bum’ and, more recently, ‘Cornerstone’. You fear you’re in for twelve tracks of tired themes and rehashed sentiment.

The pulsating ‘Brick By Brick’ puts paid to this momentary malaise, however, and from there Suck It And See never looks back.

Had you been wondering where your festival anthems will be coming from this summer, then look no further than the bass-laden romp that is ‘The Hellcat Spangled Shalala’, a track that could well be Arctic Monkeys at their most effusive; a pop song that evokes the sort of 60’s feel good factor that Pete Townshend and Ray Davies would be proud of.

The prickly intro to ‘Don’t Sit Down Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair’ is Turner once again showcasing his beguilingly creative eye; at one moment warning you not to run with scissors, and the next imploring you to go into business with a grizzly bear.  Essentially an aide memoire to the accident prone, the track could easily become the most palatable health & safety guidelines ever conceived.

By now you are jostling for the chance to press your face against the steamy window of Turner’s imagination, and are once again coaxed into a fantastical bear-trap with the curious, and yet beautiful, Library Pictures; a song not diminished in the slightest by it’s familiar quiet-loud-quiet formula, patented by a Mr. K. Cobain.  Biting and snapping it’s way into the hall of Arctic Monkeys’ classics, this is the track you’ll be air-riffing in the lift on Monday morning.

Breathless and delirious though you will no doubt be by this stage in proceedings, there is still room for a couple of trademark pop references we can all appreciate.  Not least in ‘Love Is A Laserquest’, and especially in title track ‘Suck It And See’ where Turner ruminates: ‘You’re rarer that a can of Dandelion and Burdock’ - a lyric so sincere it acts as a reminder to a generation that Arctic Monkeys are just four sound lads from Sheffield, who have assumed the role of the country’s most ubiquitous rock & roll band almost apologetically.

Even the darkest emissaries of Humbug will be made to blush by the overtures of this record, with the sumptuous chorus of closer ‘That’s Where You’re Wrong’ ringing defiantly in their ears. If you’re yet to hear it, you simply must suck it and see for yourself.



Suck It And See will be released on the 6th of June and is available for pre-order now.

Happy Birthday TGI's!

As TGI Friday’s celebrates it’s 25th anniversary at the Trafford Centre, Tim Harvey encounters a PR marathon of free cocktails, bottle-twiddling and glitzy Americana.
  Accepting last minute invitations has become somewhat of a trademark of mine in recent years, and I was at it again last Friday when one of my more competent journalist friends invited me to a PR evening at the Trafford Centre branch of TGI Friday’s.
  “There’ll be free cocktails, mate” he assures me, knowing my weakness for brightly coloured liquids.
  “And there’s no need to worry about driving, my mum will pick us up” he continues, sensing my obvious distress at the thought of being stranded at the Trafford Centre, with only the foolhardiness the cocktails have instilled in me to rely on when trying to bluster home later in the evening.
  “Oh, and I think we get free food all night” he concludes, unwittingly illuminating the yellow brick road all the way to my heart; at once initiating the fervid production of saliva in my already not-too-badly-off-for-saliva mouth.
  I have never once been to TGI Friday’s but, in the way that a film takes on a certain mythical quality when you overhear older children discussing it in the playground at school, I have built up a picture of it in my mind more vivid than the neon signs that adorn the TGI’s restaurants I have so often traipsed hungrily past.
  This was the diner for kings, or at least the diner for people with the appetite of kings.  Or, greater still, of Americans.
  But would it stand up to the ravenous appetite of a TGI’s-deprived Mancunian? 
  My imagination says their food is as unashamedly self-indulgent as REM’s Best Of; great platters of heart-attack-inducing grub ready to whet the appetite of even the most stubborn vegan at a moment’s notice.
  In my mind, the food is so delicious that I could well be in for a life-changing evening.  The fact there would be free cocktails available all night is a mere afterthought for what I have pictured…
Freshly showered and dressed in my finest cocktail party apparel (the only shirt and tie I own) I feel ready for my evening of wonders.
  The event is in aid of TGI Friday’s 25th anniversary, and has come to the attention of my friend via a PR associate of his.
  As I contemplate the pros and cons of acting as a PR flannel all night, absorbing every soggy nuance of the meticulously planned soiree with the willingness and enthusiasm of a greyhound on race-day, I experience a familiar feeling.  
  The dreaded, this is too good to be true, feeling.
Something wicked is heading my way with indecent haste…
“Oh, one thing I should mention” my friend, Craig, announces casually.
I assume brace position for the caveat that is about to gallop down my throat.
“We’re going to have to fib a bit tonight.  I’ve told them you’re a journalist”
“Drat!” - a person less prone to profanity might have exclaimed.  “Drat and blast!”
  As I ease back into my seat I wonder how troublesome I might find it assuming the role of a journalist for the evening.  On paper it shouldn’t be difficult at all. I am, after all, about to graduate from the University of Salford with a degree in Journalism & Broadcasting.
  Even the staunchest critic of university education would struggle to argue that three years of training would not endow even the most casual of academics with the wherewithal to pretend to be a journalist.  For one night.
  Indeed, having already submitted a few articles to online magazines, am I not, conceivably, already a journalist?
  These fair points cut no cloth in my suddenly hurried thought processes, however. And besides, it misses the point entirely.  I am absolutely rubbish at pretending to be anything.  
  Picture Hugh Grant bumbling his way into Julia Roberts’ dressing room in Notting Hill claiming to represent Horse & Hound.  I doubt I will be able to match even that most transparent of facades.
  “Oh well, I’ll just have to try and blag it”, I announce unconvincingly. 
 We near the Trafford Centre via the aptly-named, in light of my recent mood change, Death Valley, and I scold myself for agreeing to this ordeal.
  What do I know of TGI Friday’s? Well, as mentioned above, not a lot.
My imagination has filled in most of the gaps in my knowledge of what Craig informs me is not only one of the UK’s most popular American diners but also, in the absence of a city centre branch of TGI’s, one of Manchester’s hottest restaurants.
  Fortunately, as I soon realise upon walking into the hallowed establishment, my imagination  could well have written the TGI textbook.
  It is as illustriously American as anything you are ever likely to see.  It oozes American excess in the same way Ikea oozes Swedish efficiency.
  Gaudy pop-culture references plaster every wall and you would be hard-pressed to find a corner not already claimed by an effigy of Elvis or B.B. King.
  The staff, clad in striped referee-like regalia, patrol the gleaming gym-style floor with an attentiveness more often associated with fawning grandparents.
  I get the impression that to question America’s agenda in Afghanistan within these four walls would result in instant deportation to Guantanamo Bay.
  As Craig and I saunter towards the bar we are dazzled by the Cheshire Cat (read: welcoming hostess) who tonight is tasked with directing us to an appropriate ‘booth’ for our ‘party size‘.          She certainly looks the part, and it is to her credit that her Stockport drawl detracts only slightly from the performance.
 There is an awkward moment where our names don’t quite match those on the guest list (I am a last-minute replacement for a genuine journalist) but it is only a momentary hitch, and we are soon ushered into the VIP area.
  Our earliness, we surmise, will reflect our enthusiasm, and not just our ambition to neck as many free cocktails as our time will permit.  The former sentiment notwithstanding, we are immediately offered the chance to set the ball rolling on the latter aim.
  Just as a cocktail menu is thrust into my hands, another beaming, immaculately coiffed host bounds up to us and offers the kind of steadfast handshake only a PR man is capable of producing.
  I sense the first moment of deception is about to unfold.
  I’m not wrong, as we meet Mark, the brains behind TGI’s 25th anniversary celebrations, and the man whom I must convince I am a serious journalist with an unmatched desire to further the terrific brand of TGI Friday’s to the darkest corners of the Earth.
  As well as Manchester, the TGI’s 25th anniversary tour will take in London, Cardiff, Birmingham and Edinburgh in what Mark tells us is to be an epic celebration.
Miraculously, our initial pleasantries do not extend into a potentially guise-shattering conversation, and he invites us to order a cocktail from the bar.
This is where I realise that my imagination is not quite as splendid as I have first assumed.

 

Craig & I sandwiching a glutton. There's always one...

  We are introduced to Warren, a bar flair champion who has excelled not just in the art of bar flairing (something I had never associated with TGI’s) but also in creating new cocktails from scratch, to the extent where his own brainchild, The Skyy High Elderberry, has been added to the national cocktail menu.
  I am pleasantly surprised by this turn of events, and buoyed further at the thought of having a show to enjoy for the evening, as well as getting plied with free food and liqueur. What with the banning of alcohol at football games, and Sea World’s ongoing refusal to allow a few bevvies during their dolphin shows, I realise I am in for a rare treat.
Reasoning it would be plain rude to choose anything else on the menu but this man’s own cocktail, our order is placed: two Skyy High Elderberry’s.


  I have never been one for bottle-twiddling, but the show that the TGI bar flairers put on is a genuinely amazing spectacle.  Far from being smug, obnoxious show-offs, the flair team emit a warm glow as they twiddle, which makes for a fun and convivial vibe.
  Bottles are tossed and twirled at mind-boggling speed, and all the while the cocktail you have ordered is, albeit by the most flamboyant and circuitous route possible, coming into fruition.
  It is not long before Craig and I cast aside our pre-show nerves and are ordering all manner of exotic cocktails like it’s going out of fashion.
  One such cocktail, served up by a man so affable you suspect it might well be a criminal offence to dislike him, is called Paradise Punch, and comes with at least four liqueurs of which I quickly lose track.  Plus, perhaps as a way to balance their consciences for the food that is about to be served up, it resembles a government five-a-day advert.
  Perhaps as a result of the hastily necked drinks, or maybe because of the infectious friendliness with which the bar staff go about their business, I realise too late that I have let my guard down.
 The PR man, Mark, senses an imbalance in the force and swoops in for the next line of questioning.
“Where are you from then, mate?” He asks me, unscrupulously examining every facet of my expression, looking for weakness.
 I panic and, amidst gabbling the party line taught to me by Craig beforehand, fall off my stool.
 Though my embarrassment is excruciating, there is little reaction from our host and so I effortlessly breeze into my next faux pas, which is to lie that I am currently working for Stylist magazine.
  This does illicit a response, and I cringe to the bone as I realise his smile is one of recognition.
 “Oh great, who’s your contact at Stylist? I do some PR work for them.” 
During moments of crippling embarrassment like this, I would usually go through a routine in my head, which is of a Tie-Fighter, piloted by me, carelessly slipping into the crosshairs of the Millennium Falcon and being eviscerated in a spectacular laser blast.
I find it sums up nicely the sense of wanting to be anywhere else in the world at that moment.
  Sensing all is not lost, however, I plough on and, quite brilliantly in the eyes of Craig, navigate myself away from the jaws of oblivion by backtracking and saying I have merely applied for the role at Stylist.  
  My bacon is saved, and indeed served, moments later as the first installment of food arrives to return everyone’s thoughts to intake.
  And in this respect TGI’s scores a monster A+, as the vast plates of ribs and nachos and burgers and chips make me revise the scope of my imagination once again.
  Had the food been prepared by the House Elves of Hogwarts, and appeared magically through our tables, I could not have been more impressed.
  The feeling of invincibility that comes with quaffing endless free drinks, and wearing an ostentatious VIP necklace, quickly returns, and soon we are treated again - this time with a combined bar flair in which all the bar staff take part simultaneously.
  Like a proud father at sports day, Mark leans over our shoulders as we watch the latest dazzling display of bar flair trickery and tells us the team are world record holders.  They were involved in the biggest simultaneous bar flair in history, which had taken place in London a few weeks previously.
  Adi, Mr Likeable and the leader of the gang, is the UK champion, and his warm personality creeps into every toss, flick and spin of the glasses, ice cubes and bottles in his hands.
Though every branch of TGI’s has at least one Bar-Flairer, Manchester is unique in that it is home to four of the twinkle-fingered maestros.

Bar-Flairer Warren, struggling to hide his contempt
at Craig ordering a mineral water

And by now their heroics have gathered the attention of every diner in the place, which by now is buzzing with excitement and activity.  They look on in rapt amazement as each move is pulled off with élan by the four bar-flairing musketeers.
I feel as though my initial scepticism of TGI’s is as out of date as the Michael Jackson posters on the wall, but I am glad to be chastened in such a pleasant way.
As Craig and I polish off what could easily be our ninth or tenth cocktails of the night, we realise that the VIP area has long since filled up with a half-dozen grizzled hacks who, despite promise of free food and drink, look as world-weary as a Bassett hound on death row.
Perhaps sensing our time has come to scarper, Craig and I seek out our gregarious host, Mark, thank him for the evening and promise him glowing write-ups in the morning. 
I have certainly learned that TGI’s is more than just a glaring example of American excess, and is in fact a foreign foray that America can be proud of. 


As I stagger out into the cool Manchester night, the wicked aftertaste of the Paradise Punch still lingering in my throat, I feel like dropping to my knees and exalting to the heavens “Thank God for TGI Friday’s!”

Sounds from the Merry City

Sounds from the Merry City

Salford’s best-kept secret festival get’s seasonal as Sounds From the Other City celebrates six years of life by throwing a Christmas Party.

                                                              

Tim Harvey reports

Six years ago a small group of people, based in Islington Mill in Salford, had an idea for a grass-roots festival. They would book unknown bands from around the country to play in the humdrum venues around Salford, culminating in one final blow-out at the Mill. The only provisos were that it had to be fun and it had to be a party. The first problem they encountered, as organiser Mark Carlin tells me, was: “We just couldn’t fucking name it.”

This summer Sounds from the Other City, as it came to be, attracted two thousand revellers and staged gigs in a string of venues with bands coming from as far afield as Brooklyn and San Francisco to play.

And now the organisers of this independent festival are planning to extend the party by tapping into the festive mood and putting on a very special series of gigs and stage shows.

Sounds from the Other City has taken a long time to reach this point, and the organisers will never forget the steps they took to get to where they are.  Starting with that arduous naming process.

Carlin recalls the moment when, back in 2004, they finally nailed what would become an iconic name for their festival-to-be. “A friend came up with it actually, on the bus. He said it and I knew straight away, I said ‘That’s perfect!’”

And now, six years on, they have created a one-day carnival the likes of which Salford has never seen.  And the name resonates just as much now as ever before, itself symbolic of a whole city’s inferiority complex, cultivated within the massive shadow cast by the Manchester music scene.

It becomes quickly apparent that it is no coincidence that Sounds from the Other City sounds so self-effacing, as Carlin describes the festival from his perspective. “I still feel it’s pretty low-key, it’s just a series of gigs that people come along to.

“We set out to have a fun day out, and the minute we try and have anything other than that then there’s something wrong.”

He does admit though, that the naming of the festival was a slight at Manchester’s own In the City music soiree. “I guess it was a bit of a riposte to In the City.  There’s no doubt we remain massively in their shadow.”

In light of the sensational reviews the festival garnered this year (The MEN described it as ‘the best thing to happen to Salford in a very long time’) it would seem that SFTOC has become a bigger deal than Carlin is willing to let on.

Pressure to improve on this year’s event must inevitably come from glowing reviews, but Carlin prefers to bask in the praise for the time being. “It’s certainly nice to be recognised in the media. I don’t see it as adding pressure though, it would be much harder if they had said it was a load of shit!”

For a festival that provided the launch-pad for the Ting Tings back in 2007, and only this year saw Egyptian Hip Hop fill the Old Pint Pot to bursting point, before going on to be hailed as NME’s next big thing, where are the boundaries for the festival organisers who started and continue to act so modestly?

“I have no idea where the boundaries are” Carlin says. “I don’t think it’s necessarily about getting more people to come. Obviously more people means more money and then you can be more ambitious, but I can’t see us accommodating three, four or even five thousand people without outdoor stages. It’s not possible, for now.”

The Ting Tings played their first gigs at Islington Mill, and, if you believe Wikipedia, Katie White actually worked the bar while they were trying to get signed. Carlin laughs this off though, saying: “Back in those days I don’t think anyone really ‘worked’ on the bar. For one thing, we didn’t have tills back then. And it was such a dingy place, we didn’t get anywhere near the crowds we do now.”

Dingy is certainly a word that could be applied to a number of the venues that SFTOC incorporates, with pubs such as The Old Pint Pot and The Crescent figuring prominently in the line-up. So how do you turn pokey old watering-holes into vibrant venues, capable of accommodating some of the loudest and quirkiest bands around?

“The thing is our event benefits from these venues not being used every day” Carlin says. “People don’t realise what incredible places pubs like the Old Pint Pot can become with the right music and people.

“And the view from the top floor in there is spectacular anyway, looking out across the meadows and with the University in the background. It’s an amazing setting.”

The jewel in the crown of the SFTOC organisers though remains the place where it all started out, Islington Mill.  It has been transformed from the decrepit and often ramshackle scene it once was, into a sheikh and trendy setting that is still where the party inevitably ends up.

Carlin agrees the setting is important: “I think half the enjoyment is where it’s taking place.  I’ll be honest I think three quarters of the audience haven’t got a clue who the bands are, they’re just taking a punt. I’d like to think that most people go away from the event having discovered at least two or three bands they never would have.”

A glance at the line-up for this year’s SFTOC would appear to corroborate Carlin’s point, with bands such as Chrome Hoof, Wu Lyf and The Legend of The Seven Black Tentacles oozing obscurity and intrigue.

“I love it” says Carlin. “You can be sitting in the church with people reverentially watching Jesca Hoop one minute, and then next door in the Angel Centre you’ve got Talk Normal, from Brooklyn, crashing through their set.

“My favourite memory from this year though has to be going back to the Mill and barely being able to get in because Chrome Hoof had ten people rampaging round the stage, and the crowd were going mad for it.”

So then, what better way to celebrate six years of outrageous gigs and legendary parties than with a special Christmas do?

Sounds like another Christmas is SFTOC’s first attempt to stage a series of gigs over a few different days. From the 8^th of December to the 12^th, familiar venues such as The Kings Arms and The Black Lion will be devoted to the diverse and kooky bands that have become the trademark of SFTOC.

“Chrome Hoof had ten people

rampaging around the set

and people were going

mad for it”

And not just bands, as Carlin explains: “We wanted to really push the boat out with Sounds like another Christmas. We wanted to book a really bizarre series of acts, and believe me when you see Dinosaur Planet, you’ll see what I mean.”

Dinosaur Planet’s website promises ‘Dinosaurs, Robots and the outright destruction of Peterborough’, which sounds like common fare for the eccentric and indeed eclectic tastes of a large part of the SFTOC clientele.

More orthodox festival fare will also be catered for, with the likes of Howlin’ Rain returning to rock a festival they first played two years ago.

So, how much does Mark Carlin get involved in the booking of the bands? How much does he see of them before they play?

“Honestly, there’s a lot of stuff booked in we haven’t got a clue about. We place a lot of trust in promoters we think have been bringing the best music to the city.

“The Pull Yourself Together duo are one of our best promoters, for example.

“I like to be involved as much as possible but, as with any party where you’re the host it can be hard to get as much out of it as the punters.

“I just want people to say ‘Ah, you remember that party – it was great!’, just like any other host.”

Is there a danger that a festival that has seen its attendance exponentially rise from 350 people in the first year might sell-out and become commercialised?

“I don’t give a shit about selling out”, says Carlin. “Bollocks to it, we’re not draping Kopparberg or Becks banners over everything, so people can think what they want. I know the way people perceive what we do would change if we did that.  We like our grass-roots image but it’s difficult to sustain it.

“We don’t do as much advertising as we should do perhaps, but then, again, it’s part of the beauty of something like this. People like to discover it by themselves.”

‘Sounds like another Christmas’ starts at 8pm at The Kings Arms on Chapel Street, and continues through till the 12^th of December. Prices vary from £6 to £10.

More details at www.soundsfromtheothercity.com

This is one small step for Mankind, and one giant leap for Knitwear!

Finally! Knitwear has gone all Millenium Falcon on your asses and made the leap into Hyperspace!

Well, cyberspace, but that offers much less opportunity for Star Wars references.

Look forward to all the episodes of Knitty from this series which we will upload soon, but for now indulge yourselves in this snuggly offering.

Opine for Wine is attempted, as is a touching obituary to Bernard Matthews.

That, along with a wholesome smorgasbord of sensational music and inane banter, makes for a classic episode.

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