Welcome to The Madhouse – A Brief Stop in Manchester

Having never had the good fortune to make it up to the Midlands in dear England, I was excited for the opportunity to sample some of it’s finest craft beers and culture, if only for the briefest of moments as I waited out the long delay before moving onto Copenhagen. Safe to say, it’s unfair to judge any place merely on the quality of it’s airport, but in the case of Manchester… it’s also fair to truthfully report on the joyous chaos evident not only on the heavily make-up clad citizenry, but the layout of this small, construction-ridden pub disguised as an airport.

The central hub and waiting area. If you're adept at Where's Waldo, you might be able to find the two bridal parties celebrating.

I’ve been in a number of airports on every continent, but in my experience, Manchester is only rivaled by Kathmandu’s intrepid Tribhuvan Intl. in sheer ability to muddle through problems with a bit of pushing, shoving, and polite befuddlement. After arriving from San Francisco with little fuss on Thomas Cook, we were ushered off the plane into a dizzying myriad of construction tunnels, culminating in a teeny tiny security station… for hundreds of disembarking passengers… who’d already been through US TSA (arguably the world’s toughest (and handsiest) security). After a line of grey-clad gentlemen asked, “Where to next, love?”, I was whisked into a long, stuffy, wonderfully wild line, watching neon vests run by every minute requesting carts and specific passengers and our cooperation as they sorted things out.

My downed Thatchers Rascal, staring out at the beautiful KLM plane I declined to take in favor of the cheaper Flybe. No regrets?

Even with a rush escort (eventually secured by nearly grabbing a grey-clad by the scruff to achieve his attention), I missed my connection onwards. So cue me, sitting at the most lovely little bar/pub called the Nook, sipping a Thatchers Rascal and watching the planes come in as colorfully clad fashionistas and multiple sunglass-ed Rinaldo-haired men occupy the seats next to me. In the space of an hour, as I sat formatting SD cards, I’ve heard about Sarah’s boyfriend’s “absolutely shite” inability to perform in the bedroom, James remark on the American women’s football brilliant performance in the Women’s World Cup Semi to be met by a chorus of angry chuffs from his mates, the moans of Teresa May and her dastardly plan to hike up prices in not just London but the Midlands as well, and everything in between.

As I sit, a lonely American amidst the chaos and cacophony of just a small portion of one of the UK’s most dynamic subcultures, I can’t help but regret that I’m leaving so soon. I haven’t seen the famous Gay Village and it’s flamboyant nightlife. I haven’t had an all-night riot with any locals or sat at the pub to watch the football. But I can dream and hope to come back for a proper visit someday. In the meantime, I just got a tip about the almighty Mank Bible, a “proper funny” Facebook page highly recommended by the bloke sitting next to me at Nook. That’ll have to tide me over.

Our majestic beast... No surprise, it was a rough landing.

God bless and god speed Manchester, you beautiful thick-accented party land in the heart of Britain.