Category: Manchester

  • The Manchester Lamps, Manchester, England

    The Manchester Lamps, Manchester, England, United Kingdom

    Looking for something to light up your life? The head oop norf, because there’s never a dull moment when you visit The Manchester Lamps! The quintet of elaborately-designed nightlights were installed within the cosy confines of Piccadilly Place in 2021. But please be warned that they may turn you on!

    Lanternationally-renowned art collaborative Acrylicize really caught lighting in a bottle when they created this bulbous bunch. Each has its own quirky, roguish personality that holds a mirror up to Mancunian culture. From centuries-old relics to sleek contemporary office furniture, it’s their time to shine.

    Best of all, each lamp doubles as a bench, so you can bask in their glory whilst nibbling on a heavenly vegan blueberry croissant from the nearby Coffee Hive. Try it with a decadent dollop of locally-sourced honey – go on, I won’t tell anyone!

    This monument is light fitting – oops, I mean quite fitting! – because lamps are the only thing the locals enjoy more than football hooliganism. But don’t worry, there’s nothing shady about them!

    I was fortunate to visit the Manchester Lamps with my growing gaggle of Land of the Bigs groupies – Gordon, Gideon and my roadside attraction-obsessed half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez. It was heartwarming to see their little faces light up at the display.

    Yes, I certainly give these Big Things my lamp of approval!

    I love lamp!

    Whilst the rest of us were content to gawp in wonder at the Manchester Lamps, it was Bigella who had spent months – even years – researching their significance.

    “¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale, ándale!” Bigella yelped, whilst munching on a black pudding-and-eccles cake taco. She paused, disposed of the remains of her meal, and took a deep breath. “My sincerest apologies for lapsing into a comical depiction of a common Méxican. It happens whenever I get particularly emocionada about a Big. So you can imagine that a collection of five giant lamps can make me mucho loca.”

    “It’s perfectly understandable,” I assured Bigella. “I was so overcome by emotion upon first encountering The Big Watermelon that I took to behaving like what’s commonly known as a ‘bogan’. It took several years of quite invasive therapy to snap me out of it. But I digress.”

    Unperturbed by my display of self-flagellation, Bigella perambulated over to the nearest Lamp and gestured dramatically towards its arcuate base.

    “Please allow me to shed some light on the fascinating stories behind these Lamps. The Art Deco-inspired Lamp, with its flagrant use of blue and oranges, salutes Earnest Rutherford, whose research at the local university led to the splitting of the atom.”
    “A noble cause,” I intimated. “Well, except for all the bombs and death and pollution and misery his work inevitably led to. But please, Bigella, continue.”

    “Ensconced in the loving embrace of books and pens, the Art Nouvea Lamp serves as a homage to the nearby Chetham’s Library.”
    “The oldest in the English-speaking world?”
    “The very same.”
    “Hmm, I wonder whether they have the autobiography of Estonian stage, film, television and voice actress, Anu Lamp?”
    “Oh Bigs! Despite what people say, you really are quite humorous.”

    Lady and the Lamp

    “With its quirky, aphrodisiacal honeycomb lattice, the Mid-Century Bedside Lamp harkens back to Manchester’s famous – yet morally ambiguous – worker bee mantra,” Bigella lectured. “For a more literal representation of this, the extremely intere-sting Big Bee can bee found in the nearby Sackville Garden.”
    “That’s un-bee-lievable! And the Green Desk Lamp? It wouldn’t be a flamboyant tribute to the cult of personality that is Alan Turing, would it?”

    “You sure know your socially and professionally-divisive theoretical biologists, Bigs.”
    “Alan was convicted of gross indecency for being a homosexual, you know. He was sentenced to chemical castration.”
    “Don’t worry, Bigs,” my younger sibling imparted, placing a reassuring hand upon my shoulder. “They overturned that law years ago”

    “And as for the chic Anglepoise Lamp? Does it cast our minds towards Manchester’s impact upon the European fashion industry? The sporting triumphs of these proud people? The brash, yet melodic, music industry for which the city is synonymous?
    “It’s just a Big Lamp, Bigs. Not everything needs to have some deeper meaning.”

    National Lamp-oon’s Vacation

    As we were departing the Manchester Lamps for an opulent meal at the nearest Weatherspoon’s, Gordon and Gideon, Land of the Bigs’ mascots, stopped me in my tracks. Their impish grins told me they were up to something.

    “I found the display quite….” Gideon piped up, “illuminating!”
    “Yes, it was very…” Gordon added, with his trademark comedic timing, “enlightening!”
    As Bigella groaned, I hurried the kids to a quiet corner of the square and sat them down.

    “Guys,” I said gently, ruffling their hair, “I know you mean well, but I find your pithy attempts at humour to be both purile and rather condescending. The Big Lamps hold a place of great significance to me. I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but, since I was a child I’ve slept with the bedside lamp on.”

    “That took great courage for you to admit, Bigs,” Gordon assured me. “But it’s still pretty strange.”
    “I don’t know,” I replied with a smirk. “I think it makes a great hat – teehee!”

  • A Monument to Vimto, Manchester, England

    A Monument to Vimto, Manchester, England, United Kingdom

    Are you ready to shlurple the purple? Wait, wait, come on now, don’t call the police! I’m not being uncouth, I’m merely repeating the long-time tagline attached to an utterly bonkers northern English fizzy drink named Vimto.

    Crafted from grapes, raspberries and blackcurrants and mixed with a zesty blend of herbs and spices, Vimto tastes like heaven on earth, with a subtle hint of cough medicine drained through a fisherman‘s sock. The locals are obsessed with it, though, and are known to box the ears of anyone who disparages their favourite drink.

    Created in Manchester in 1908 by a flamboyant chap named John Noel Nichols, Vimto was originally marketed as a health tonic. Sadly, the only noticeable health effects were a reduction in teeth and an increased risk of diabetes, so it was quickly repositioned as a soft drink. Bizarrely, it found widespread adoration in the Arab world as a staple drink of Ramadan. Apparently the locals refuse to Du-buy anything else!

    The Vimto factory was relocated in 1910 and the grounds handed over to the University of Manchester, and it’s on this site you’ll find the venerated Monument to Vimto. Won’t someone think of the children? How are they supposed to concentrate on their tutorials when there’s a giant bottle of Vimto outside their classroom, just waiting to be worshipped?

    Carved from oak by the incomparable Kerry Morrison, this masterpiece was installed in 1992. It’s just as bright and bubbly as a goblet of icy-cold Vimto, having been fully restored in 2011, and is complimented by cheeky representations of the fresh fruit used in Vimto’s production.

    The monument’s whimsical nature, coupled with its unabashed enthusiasm for the source material, make it the ultimate destination when visiting England’s glamorous north. No wonder Mancunians are so full of Vimto and vigour!

    The Fruitiest Big I Know

    Whilst a cool glass of Vimto on a balmy Manchester afternoon is a truly holistic experience, a pilgrimage to the monument that bears its name proves to be anything but. When my Latin-American half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez and I arrived, with clear eyes and full hearts, we were outraged to discover that a gang of layabouts had taken up residence at the base of the statue.

    With lips and teeth stained a sickening vermillion, the gypsies had obviously spent a decadent afternoon overindulging on bottles Vimto, which littered the surrounds. Anyone unfortunate enough to venture nearby faced the full extent of the thugs’ wrath, as they hurled insults and plastic flagons of Vimto with equal ferocity.

    Personal safety, however, must come second to reporting on Big Things. Bigella and I did our best to ignore their catcalls as we posed for some surprisingly delightful happy snaps, focusing on the bottle’s intricately engraved details to take our attention away from the deranged lunatics. If you look closely, you can see the fear etched across our faces.

    But then things got personal.

    Seriously Mixed-Up Hobos

    “Maybe yer lady friend would like to share a cup of Vimto with us?” one particularly unscrupulous reprobate heckled, moistening his sun-chapped lips with a lascivious tongue as he rattled a jug of the berry-flavoured treat. I noted, with a touch of horror, that he was consuming the concentrated variation – and he didn’t seem to have added much water. “Plenty to go around. We’ve got all the flavours.”

    “Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant?” I asked, my interest piqued.
    “Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant,” the lecherous hobo responded with a monstrous smirk. “Ice cold, just the way she likes it.”

    The vagrant took a liberal swig of the ruby-red nectar, allowing a hedonistic portion to dribble down his unshaven chin. His mates, eyeballs spinning in their skulls from their sugar highs, raised plastic cups full of Vimto to us. I was hypnotised by the drink’s effervescent beauty as it sparkled in the dying light. So sweet, so refreshing, so economically-priced.

    “Bigella,” I bellowed, a thin veneer of bravado masking my inner turmoil. “Run for it. I’ll stay here to hold back these troublemakers!”
    “But Bigs,” my sister squawked, sweat pouring from her brow, “I can’t leave! You’re too pretty – these pervertidos will eat you alive!”
    “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I yawped, pushing Bigella into the streets of Manchester. “Now run away and never look back!”

    As the first, succulent drops of Vimto cascaded out of the homeless chap’s flask and poured, luxuriously, down my gaping maw, I realised that I’d plummeted to a new low in my life.

    But what can I say? I’m just a guy who likes to shlurple the purple!