Eulogy, A-Flat

Sad.

Moving away from my big city flat. For the past year I lived in super-digs opposite Granada Studios on Quay Street. The balcony overlooked the end of Coronation Street where Dev's cornershop and the factory are located. When we first moved in we drank whiskey on the balcony whilst watching the knicker factory burn down. Last week we sat out until 1am waiting for a tram to crash and cause a massive explosion. KABOOM, it did not disappoint. In spring, Brown, Cameron and Clegg appeared for the first ever Leaders Debate, the whole area was like a TV set and totalitarian state.

I remember being woken up on a day off by a bitter argument breaking out amongst the queue for the Jeremy Kyle show.

Surely, though, my favourite memory is one of Night Time In The Big City...

On a mid-week night, at around 4am, I was awoken by drunks out in the street. Uniquely, this turned out to be a delight rather than a nuisance. I jumped up to my window and saw the group walking down the middle of the road singing at the top of their voices;

'Jeremy Kyle is a dick, is a dick, is a dick, Jerrremy Kyle is knob, is a knob, is a....' at which point the men ran and repeatedly shoulder CHARGED the front doors of Granada Studios and broke into a wild chant;

FREE FREE GAIL PLATT
FREE FREE GAIL PLATT
FREE FREE GAIL PLATT

(Gail Platt had just been wrongly locked up for murdering Joe McIntyre in Coronation Street. He had in fact died after being whacked on the head by the sail of his boat out on Lake Windermere in the middle of the night as he tried to fake his own death, against Gail's wishes.)

They continued charging the doors until a rotund Security Guard shouted the I'd-rather-not-catch-up warning shot, 'Oi!!!' and proceeded to give chase to the men down the middle of the road as they ran and continued to chant, FREE FREE GAIL PLATT.

Delightful.

Some of our neighbours were actors from Coronation Street, this felt strange in that usually city centre living involves ignoring each other in corridors and never becoming familiar with anyone's face. Even though I only knew their fictional characters, there was something mildly pleasant about having a few neighbours with familiar faces - which goes against my inner brutal-romanticism about the anonymity of city living.

The magnificent, iconic big red lights atop of Granada Studios read: GRANADA TV. The GRAN lit up my bedroom all night, the ADA lit up the living room. It was an honour and privledge to be lit up by such a brilliant Manchester landmark. I never expected to be the last to have this honour. Three weeks ago I woke up and looked out of my window to see workmen pulling those beacons of urban-excitement down. ITV has committed an act of asbsolute cultural-vandalism. I'm still too angry to say much more about the damage they've done to the city skyline at the moment. Maybe it is for the best that I leave now; as the nights draw in, it will undoubtedly be so much darker and duller this winter without that big city night-time glow of optimism.

So now it's time to leave the novelty behind, and the lush flat. The winter was cold and bitter, the snow and ice were extreme; I watched city blizzards from behind the veil of warm spirits and the red glare of an urban dream. The summer was warm and pleasant, I remember many afternoons watching the World Cup with cold beers as I duly noted the reflections in Granada's mirrored glass of a handsome nudist sunbathing on the balcony above; surely indicators of a good summer? A good place to live.

This big river keeps on rolling though.