Category Archives: Culture

Eastbound & Down

I managed to avoid the post-Europa final wake at OT vs Villa as I was headed to Manchester Airport to get on another flight – this time en-route to Kuala Lumpur via Istanbul. The moment I’d heard rumours of an end-of-season Asian tour I was determined to go. The only stumbling block was the potential cost but a few minutes research informed me that both flights and hotels were reasonably priced. Match tickets ended taking a bit longer but that was more due to my inept attempts at navigating both the Malaysian and Hong Kong ticket portals. After a handful of failed attempts and declined transactions I eventually got there so was good to go.

The flight was late departing, which meant that a leisurely 2 hour layover turned into a stressful 25 minute jog/power walk across the entire length of Istanbul Airport. I made the KL flight with 5 mins to spare but was disappointed to find it packed as I was hoping to commandeer a row of seats and get some sleep. Instead, the next 10 hours were spent flitting between films, podcasts and trying to snaffle as much free booze as possible every time the trolley made an appearance.

Landing in KL, the first thing I clocked was a Malaysian Airlines plane emblazoned with the United crest which signalled that the team must have landed too. I made my way to arrivals where there were numerous dignitaries and shirt-clad locals hanging around waiting to greet the players. I’d seen quite enough of them over the last few months thank you very much, so quickly swerved it and made my way to the lower levels of the airport in search of the express train to KL Sentral.

Having successfully boarded the train, 30 mins later we were approaching the centre and I was getting a true indication of the sheer size of the place. The outer suburbs turned into rafts of skyscrapers, busy flyovers and neon lights – very Bladerunner-esque. I’d chosen a hotel in Bukit Bintang (main tourist area and good for food according to the internet) so then had to take the Monorail half a dozen stops to where I was staying. Stepping outside the station was the first time I’d been out of air-con range since I’d landed and the heat and humidity were something else. Beads of sweat quickly formed on my forehead as I walked the few hundred yards to my digs.

It was about 9pm local time after I’d checked in and despite being knackered having barely slept in 24+ hours, I knew that crashing now was a bad idea if I wanted to avoid jet lag. Instead, I went for a wander in search of a drink. Bukit Bintang at night was buzzing and the streets were packed with people. It didn’t take me long to find a decent bar where they were serving pints of Tiger for £4 and the locals were getting stuck into the karaoke. I had a couple of pints followed by a few G&Ts before deciding to call it a night. I wandered back to the hotel and despite the time approaching midnight, the entire area was still bouncing.

The next morning I was up early and relieved to find I’d slept for 7 hours straight. Mission accomplished and I was feeling great. Today was going to be all about packing as much in as possible and doing the typical tourist stuff. First I needed some breakfast so after a quick shower I headed out again and my word, even early in the morning the humidity-level was quite literally breathtaking. Walking round KL you have to move slowly otherwise you’re just a sweaty mess gasping for oxygen within 5 minutes. Thankfully, their air-con game is next level so anywhere indoors and you’re laughing. You have to bear this in mind at all times. Don’t even contemplate walking anywhere more than 20 minutes away.

That day I travelled outside the centre to visit the Batu Caves (massive gold statue, brightly coloured steps, Hindu temples and wild monkeys), had a mooch around Chinatown (Chinese food) and went to see the Petronas Towers (19th and 20th tallest buildings in the world, fact fans). It was very easy to get around, the people were friendly and I never once encountered a language barrier. Everything was unbelievably cheap. I ate at a restaurant for the princely sum of £1.30 and public transport cost pennies. The only thing approaching Western prices in KL is booze (due in part to it being a predominantly Muslim country) but everything else was insanely good value.

The next day was the match so after another day sampling all I could sample, I got the train out to the 87,500 capacity Bukit Jalil National Stadium situated a few kilometres outside the centre. Arriving at the ground over an over before kick off, the adjacent area was packed with food vendors and stalls selling all kinds of dubious-origin, United-related tat. I walked towards the ground confused why there were still thousands outside as I expected most people would have gone in by now. As I got closer the reason became clear – there were only about a dozen turnstiles open.

I joined one of the half-mile long queues which barely moved for 15 minutes before deciding I’d had enough. Sweat was rolling down my back, I needed a drink and was also desperate for a piss. Not proud of myself but I walked straight to the front and pushed in, nobody said a word and I didn’t really care anyway – I wasn’t going to wet myself just to remain polite. Once inside I grabbed a drink (no beer unsurprisingly, iced tea of some variety instead) and took my seat. The ground was pretty uninspiring inside as there was a running track meaning you were miles away from the pitch. The problems getting people in were evident as the vast majority of seats remained empty as the teams warmed up.

The opposition were the ASEAN Allstars (no, me neither) but the crowd were all there to watch United. The local fans belted out ‘Glory Glory Man United’ as it played at deafening volume over the PA system and the players received a rapturous welcome. Onana seemed to be a particular favourite ‘OH-NA-NA! OH-NA-NA!’ and unlike the players, everyone seemed ecstatic just to be there. Rather than put on a show, the team opted to demonstrate their very worst and could barely string a pass together once the match kicked off. I’d sat through this too many times in recent months so decided as half-time approached I was going to head back into town instead.

Back in my ‘local’, I learnt we had lost 1-0 and the reported attendance was actually 70K+. It didn’t look to be anywhere like that number from my viewpoint but maybe there was ultimately – people were still making their way into the ground as I was leaving. One thing worth noting is how placid the crowds remained despite the problems entering the stadium. If something like that occurred anywhere else there would be have been chaos but everyone remained chilled and just seemed to accept the fact they weren’t getting in anytime soon.

The next day it was back to the airport for an early-afternoon 4hr flight to Hong Kong. I was sorry to leave KL after only 3 days and could have easily stayed longer. If you love exploring new cities it really is a must-visit as everything about the place was spot on. The people, the food, the ultra-modern architecture and the sheer ease of getting about made for a memorable few days – I honestly couldn’t recommend it more. Nevertheless, I was excited for the next leg of the trip and keen to experience whatever HK had in store.

I’d opted to stay in Kowloon as opposed to HK Island and after checking in to my hotel, made my way to meet a mate who’d arrived earlier in the day. First impressions of the place were all nods to HK’s colonial past – they drive on the left, the traffic signs are British replicas and they have double-decker buses same as home. The darkness and miserable weather added to the sense of familiarity as I made my way to the pub where we launched into a comprehensive post-mortem of United’s season.

The next day it had stopped raining but the forecast didn’t look promising. We took the Star Ferry over to HK Island and spent a leisurely day exploring. Highlights included a ride on a mad little double-decker tram (these have been operational since 1904) and a meal at the Joy Hing (a renowned BBQ spot visited by the late Anthony Bourdain). As the afternoon progressed we settled into a pre-match booze ahead of United’s final game of the season taking place that evening.

We left the pub for the short walk to the ground and unfortunately it was pouring down. Everyone else seemed to have anticipated this and planned accordingly judging by the number of umbrellas on show. Another strange cultural thing I noticed was everyone shuffling towards the ground in a very orderly manner, no one spilling into traffic or walking in the middle of the road. Imagine pre-match crowds walking down Sir Matt Busby Way but limiting themselves to the pavement only – it all seemed very odd.

The match was at the 40,000 capacity Hong Kong Stadium and once again, it was well short of capacity. Despite United still possessing a strong pull, there’s no doubt that the latest generation of international fans’ loyalties might lie elsewhere now. That said, the promoters might want to take a look at their pricing structure too. I mean, I’m daft enough to pay £100 to watch the current crop of clowns in a meaningless fixture like this, but it doesn’t automatically mean everyone else should follow suit.

Anyway, the game was as dull as expected and United went 1-0 down (I think) so at HT we did the sensible thing and sacked it off. It was still bucketing down so a brisk walk to the subway was in order before we eventually settled down in the boozer to see United lift the (checks notes) ‘Defining Education Challenge Cup’. It appears we’d missed an unlikely(?) 2nd half comeback. Feeling every bit as underwhelmed as the players looked on the pub’s TV, we toasted the conclusion of our worst season in decades.

The next day we had a decision to make, it was either the Dragon Boat Festival at Stanley Beach (quite a big deal locally) or the HK FA Cup Final taking place at the splendidly-named Mong Kok Stadium just a few stops away via the MTR. We opted for the match and although Google gave no clues on how to obtain them, we arrived at the ground to find tickets on open sale. It was about £11 to get in and once inside we found a tidy little 6,000 capacity arena that was filling up nicely with fans of the respective finalists.

Despite not being great quality, the match was entertaining and we lasted longer than we did the previous evening. Watching the groups of Ultras go about their business was amusing and the celebrations greeting the goals completing a late comeback by Eastern FC veered on raucous. After the game we went for another meal (my chopstick proficiency was slowly improving) and then set off for HK Island again. The plan was to catch a bus up to Victoria Peak to witness the famous panorama of Hong Kong after dark… not anticipating it would be completely obscured by a thick layer of fog. The ferry back over to Kowloon at least provided some spectacular views of the harbour by night, albeit from a far lower vantage point.

The next day I awoke to glorious sunshine as the weather had finally decided to sort itself out. My mate had an early-morning flight but I still had a few hours to kill until I was due at the airport. I went for a walk, which led to lunch and a couple of beers before grabbing my bag and starting the journey home. I flew back via Shanghai and once again, the brutal 12 hour final leg was chock-a-block which meant I got very little sleep. I arrived back in Manchester at 7am desperate for a shower and the luxury of my own bed.

These post-season tours might be loathed by pundits and players but I’d had a marvellous time. The whole thing cost less than what some people paid for a Bilbao hotel room and I’ll be all over it should any repeat be announced in future. The lack of European trips next season is hugely disappointing but the silver-lining is it presents the opportunity to save for something similarly exotic at the end of next season. Japan/South Korea would be nice, please – if anyone from United’s Commercial Department is reading.

rednews.bigcartel.com

Paint A Vulgar Picture

1 Reply

“This unique documentary tells the incredible story of a revolution which rose up from within the walls and dancefloor of a former warehouse in central Manchester” so trumpeted the blurb issued by the BBC publicising last month’s documentary, The Hacienda: The Club That Shook Britain. Rather than striking a chord, this one struck a nerve. How on earth can any Factory records/Hacienda retrospective described as “unique”? The story has been told and re-told so many times that it’s almost beyond parody now. Documentaries, feature films, exhibitions, books, Hacienda fucking Classical… a never-ending stream of self-mythologising, misty-eyed bollocks.

Back in the days when the Hacienda existed only as a mere nightclub, Manchester could perhaps justifiably claim to have been a forward-thinking city. Liverpool, with its Beatles tourist industry in full bloom, was mockingly derided for its whoring of past cultural touchstones. Fast forward 30 years and I’d argue that the plunder and pillage of Manchester’s musical history is a far more depressing spectacle than the Cavern club welcoming coach loads of Japanese tourists.

I find it hard to believe that Tony Wilson, Factory supremo and driving force behind the Hacienda’s creation, would be in any way engaged with the tedious nostalgia-fest that has now become it’s legacy. The Situationist International movement, a key influence on Wilson’s original vision for Factory, aimed to disrupt homogeneity within the arts and popular culture. As a central figure in bringing both punk rock and rave culture to the masses, I can’t imagine he’d be interested in relentlessly mining events played out decades previously to supplement his pension.

Peter Hook, on the other hand, clearly possesses no such qualms. Having moved on from forging Ian Curtis’ signature and profiteering from gullible record collectors, he’s reduced to performing karaoke versions of Joy Division’s back catalogue (sometimes, I kid you not, with a Stars In Their Eyes-style Curtis impersonator in tow) and flogging, quite literally, any old crap he can lay his hands on adorned with black and yellow chevrons. T-shirts, hoodies, lanyards, mugs, key rings, tote bags… they’re all there on his website.

I honestly think it’s time that all concerned moved on. As a nation we are genuinely obsessed with nostalgia. There’s nothing wrong with this in small doses as it can be fun to reminisce and history is there to be learnt from. If a country’s whole identity is based on events from decades previous it risks losing perspective and a sense of direction. Take a simple thing like Remembrance Sunday, once upon a time this used to be the British Legion selling poppies for a week prior to a respectfully observed minute’s silence. These days it’s turned into an event lasting a full fortnight during which all manner of weird behaviour and tasteless paraphernalia is encouraged.

Rather than wallowing in the past, I’d prefer to see more coverage dedicated to Manchester’s present. I don’t want to hear Noel Gallagher pontificating about dance music, I want airtime given to Aitch or Bugzy Malone. I want to see a documentary on the inexorable rise of Sacha Lord from nightclub owner to the fringes of mainstream politics. Let’s see an investigation into Gary Neville’s burgeoning property empire or a deep dive on the regeneration of East Manchester and the deal between Abu Dhabi and Manchester Council. As for the Hacienda, I think we’ve heard enough for this lifetime, thanks.

rednews.bigcartel.com

Let’s Gdańsk

Leave a reply

For most of us, watching football was very much a social activity before it became a solitary pursuit once lockdown was imposed in March last year. After Roma were despatched in the semis, the realisation hit that with pubs opening up again, it might present the opportunity to watch the final together with a few match-going pals – a nice little reunion of sorts. It was only when proposing this to one of my group that he mentioned United might be getting a limited allocation for the game and flying to Poland could be a possibility – the thought hadn’t even occurred to me previously.

Over the next few days, the logistics of any proposed trip became clear. Since Poland was on the Amber list, PCR tests would be required before and after travelling as well as a 10 day quarantine period upon return. Obviously this was going to be a massive ball-ache, but the illogical part of my brain was now fully intent on going. It was a European final after all, and these things have to be done if the opportunity exists. Funds were in place and I had plenty of annual leave to take from work, so let’s have it.

The only real concern was whether I’d be successful in the ballot with minimal credits, since United were only due to receive 2000 tickets. Unsurprisingly, the prohibitive cost of tests and quarantine had put many regular travellers off so I ended up getting lucky. A couple of mates were assured tickets due to having a million credits and we were good to go. All that remained was to book flights, decipher exactly what paperwork was required to get out and back into the country and to stock the fridge for quarantining once I was back.

Match day arrived and it was a brutally early 3am start at an otherwise deserted Manchester Airport. The flight over was uneventful and after minimal queues checking COVID documentation on arrival, it was a half hour bus ride into the centre of Gdańsk. What a lovely place the Old Town was too. After 5 minutes wandering round you couldn’t help be impressed with the architecture and how picturesque it was. However, being English we weren’t there for sightseeing and culture. Our plan was to find an Irish bar so we could spend the day getting shitfaced on industrial strength lager whilst screaming obscenities at any passing locals.

Of course it wasn’t… although having been up for hours already we were in desperate need of refreshments at this point. It didn’t take long to find a decent bar and it was a surprise to discover that despite the COVID restrictions in place they were happily serving punters indoors. The beers were inexpensive and there was plenty of choice available for the connoisseurs in our little group. The main problem was going to be seeing the game at all as it was still 10 hours ‘til kick off and most of the ales were in 6-7% range. It promised to be a long and potentially messy day.

At this point we bumped into a couple of my brother’s pals who’d arrived the day before. I enquired about the reported trouble from the previous night and they confirmed it was nothing to write home about. A few local hoolies had attacked a bar late on when most reds had already departed, they were swiftly despatched and that was that. For the rest of the morning we took a leisurely stroll round the Old Town, stopping off for more refreshments whenever we saw a bar that looked good. There were plenty to choose from and most were doing steady business as you’d expect.

Whereas most of the United contingent were holed up in the pub, the streets were a sea of yellow as Villarreal fans were everywhere. It was hard not to feel chuffed for them as they all appeared ecstatic at the fact they’d made it to the final. They didn’t really bring groups of lads, there were entire families there all decked out in bright yellow. Mum, Dad and Grandad with kids in tow… all smiling and snapping photos at every opportunity. It was all very wholesome. We’re so blasé about the successes we’ve witnessed over the years, it was nice to see a set of fans experiencing this for the first time.

As the afternoon progressed we’d pretty much seen all of the Old Town as it’s only a small place. It was time for a change of scenery so we jumped in an Uber and asked to go to the coast. We ended up just south of Sopot and only a couple of miles from the ground. We spent the next 2-3 hours sat in deckchairs at a beachside bar, still enjoying cut-price booze against the panoramic backdrop of the eerily-still Baltic Sea. A few other reds had done the same thing and it was a nice vibe there, quite a contrast to the typical pre-match build-up one encounters on a Euro away.

As kick off drew nearer and after a solid 7 hours on the ale, food appeared to be the sensible option. There were half a dozen restaurants to choose from in the vicinity and we settled on a pizza gaff that looked alright. 3 pizzas, starters, more beers, coffee and a dessert came in at a more than reasonable €50, so we felt obliged to leave a more than generous tip. We then had a final round of G&T’s back at the beach before it was time to start thinking about making our way to the ground.

After convincing Danny that hiring a scooter wasn’t the best idea considering he’d been drinking since 10am, we set off walking. 20 minutes later the Polsat Plus Arena loomed into view – think Allianz Arena from the outside except in an unpleasant shade of yellow. From the direction we were approaching there was literally no one else around. The game was kicking off in half an hour yet you would have had no idea anything was happening other than the fact there was a helicopter buzzing around in the distance.

After getting masked up and negotiating the electronic ticket checks, we were in. The ground was absolutely quality inside, a proper 21st century stadium that again highlighted how tired OT looks in comparison now. The atmosphere pre-game was good too considering the reduced capacity. It was weird having so many empty seats but there was plenty of noise from the reds in attendance – you couldn’t really hear Villarreal at the other end of the ground.

I’m not going to talk about the match because I’m sure that’ll be covered in detail elsewhere. But as midnight approached everyone trooped out feeling a bit dejected given how everything turned out. It wasn’t the first time the actual match turned out to be the low-point of a European trip and I’m sure it won’t be the last. We headed back to the buses and started the long journey home. I ended up back in the house at 5.30am, a mere 27 hours after starting out. Belting day out, shit result. Was it worth all the hassle? Yeah, of course it was.

rednews.bigcartel.com