Some people bemoan their hometown, most people consider their hometown the finest place on earth. I fall very much into the latter category. I am a Manc, and proud of it.
This is the reason why I found myself in bed on Tuesday morning with the radio on and tears on my cheeks. I have never before cried due to some news event, only ever shedding a tear over personal matters. But the accounts of the atrocity at the Manchester Arena filled me with sadness that spilled from my eyes.
I understand that there are countless tragedies that happen across the world. Terrorism spreads in every continent. We should grieve for the murdered from Istanbul to Mosul and on to Paris and Nice. Yet this terrorist attack hit home like no other. Because it happened in my home.
Every minute of the day, somewhere in the world, a child loses a parent, a wife loses a husband, a lover loses the loved. One can sympathise with their loss but you feel the grief when it is someone close to you who suffers the loss and the grief is incalculable when you are the one to suffer the loss. And so it is, even in our global age, that the bomb in a market place in the Middle East seems more remote than a massacre on the boulevards of Nice. So when you hear of the targeting of children in a spot which you have stood countless times the loss becomes your loss. The murdered could so easily be one of your family. This was a blow struck in the heart of my city.
If you do not know Manchester then you will not know what makes it special. Mancunians are simultaneously brash and charming. Older fans of Coronation Street can think Bet Lynch, all leopard print and warmth. There is the swagger of a Gallagher and the laid back attitude of Iain Brown. The City shares the beauty of Tim Booth’s voice and the bleak landscape of a Joy Divisison song. The locals party like Bez with the melancholic wit of Morrissey. We are the music and the bands that manage to span the BeeGees to the Roses. We are the football of George Best and Rodney Marsh, of Eric Cantona and Georgi Kinkladze and of Ronaldo and Aguero. We are the Northern Quarter and the Gay Village. We are friendly and funny. We are mad and mad for it.
Manchester has all the hallmarks of a big city. There are two premiership football stadia. And not just any old premiership football stadia but the biggest football ground in the league and the homes of the winners of fifteen out of the last twenty five league titles. There is a Test Cricket ground, not just any Test Cricket ground but the ground where Laker took 19 Ashes wickets and Botham performed miracles. There is big business and small enterprise. There is a university with Nobel prize winners.
We have history. Roman history. Industrial history. Political history. Cultural history. And a history of how we came to be. We boast about Karl Marx, Emmeline Pankhurst, Alan Turing, L.S. Lowry and Tony Wilson. The Lincoln Letter may feature large in Tarantino’s Hateful Eight but he wrote to us first. And we built him a statute because of it. We have a ship canal. A ship canal that Mancunians built to cut Liverpool out of our cotton trade. A rivalry with our neighbours who we love to hate and hate that we love them.
Every cliche about Manchester is true. We have hard vowels and soft water. It rains. It rains a lot. You can see, if you look hard enough, matchstick men and matchstick cats and dogs. Trams criss cross the city centre. We call siblings “our kid” and we love gravy on our chips.
So Manchester has every right to have big ideas about itself. It is big, it is bold and it is brilliant. But it is also like a village. Two main roads running parallel to each other and you can walk from Cathedral to Castlefield, from Spinningfields to Strangeways and from the Village to the Irwell in about fifteen minutes for each traverse across the city. The City Centre is a compact heart that spirals out to become Greater Manchester.
And so I return to the bomb, the death and the despair. Proud Mancunians are heartbroken that a son of Manchester, a terrorist born amongst us, could do this to his fellow Mancunians. Targeting children, teens and parents with a callousness that defies comprehension. The City currently seems so sad. Every street corner speaks of sorrow. Every citizen wears a sombre cloak. It is a village in mourning.
Life always goes on for those left to live it. Condolences are uttered ad infintum to the bereaved. Pledges of strength and recovery are uttered. Help is given. Comfort is received. Manchester will go back to being everything it was and always has been. But it will always bear a scar that will always hurt. Because we care about Manchester and we care about our fellow Mancunians.
I hope to never cry tears again for the children of my city who have been murdered before they have ever thought a cynical thought. Children who were having a giddy and thrilling night out enjoying life. Never forgotten.