The GardenDespatches from The Satyrs’ Forest

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Lords of Misrule 2022: The Gift of the Influencers, by Baki

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Iō Saturnalia! Just as last year, a month ago, i flipped the tables and invited you all to send me whatever you wanted and i would put it up on the site. I’m pleased to say that even more took up my offer than last year, and over the next five days, you’ll be seeing a variety of their works. Our first submission for 2022 comes from a reader by the nom de plume of Baki. Enjoy.

One thousand eight hundred and seventy dollars. That was all. She had put it aside, one dollar and then another and then another, in her careful posting of selfies and other online activity. Della counted it three times. One thousand eight hundred and seventy dollars. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was nothing to do but post an Instagram Story and cry. So Della did it.

While the lady of the home is slowly growing quieter, we can look at the home. A VW van. There is little more to say about it.

The engine had decided to finally stop working completely and needed replacement. In the back there was an area too small to hold a toilet. There was a bed, but it was not long enough. Also there was a barely functional kitchen with the names of the owners above the tiny window surrounded by little hearts, Della and James Young.

When the names were placed there, Mr. James Dillingham Young was being paid $300 a week via PayPal, Venmo, and Patreon from people supporting their #vanlife social media lifestyle. Now, when he was being paid only $200 a week, the name seemed too long and important. It should have been “Jamie Young.” But when Mr. James Dillingham Young entered the van, his name became very short indeed. Mrs. James Dillingham Young put her arms warmly around him and called him “Jim.” You have already met her. She is Della.

Della finished her Instagram Story and wiped the tears from her face. She sat by the window and looked out with no interest. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only one thousand eight hundred and seventy dollars with which to buy Jim a gift. She had put aside as much as she could for months, with this result. Two hundred dollars a week is not much. Everything had cost more than she expected. It always happened like that.

Only $1,870 to buy a gift for Jim. She had had many happy hours planning something nice for him. Something nearly good enough. Something almost worth the honor of belonging to Jim.

There was the interior of the van. Perhaps you have seen the kind of interior of a van that is created by two people living #vanlife on social media. There was wood. There were lots of fairy lights. There was a colorful blanket to tie it all together. It was very narrow and hard to photograph properly with an iPhone that was two generations out-of-date. However, if she were very patient and used a cheap five dollar fish eye lens attachment, she might be able to get a good pic of the interior. Della, being quite patient, had mastered this art.

Suddenly she stopped trying to film the interior of the van and stared at her phone. Her eyes were shining brightly, but her face had lost its color. Quickly she turned off her phone and set it down on the colorful blanket.

The James Dillingham Youngs were very proud of two things which they owned. One thing was Jim’s VW van. It had been their reason for quitting their boring forty hour a week jobs so they could live their #bestlife. The other was Della’s iPhone, the only camera they owned which allowed them to document their #vanlife on social media so they could be influencers.

If a queen had lived in the campsite next to them, Della would have taken pics of her with the two generation old iPhone and posted them so the queen could see. Della knew that her pics were more beautiful than any a queen could have taken with much more modern equipment.

If a king had lived in the campsite next to them, with his fancy $200,000 RV with pop outs and self-leveling, Jim would have invited him over for a ramen dinner. Jim knew that no king had anything as wonderful as his VW van.

So Della stared down at her iPhone then picked it up again. She stopped for a moment and stood still while a tear or two ran down her face.

With the bright light still in her eyes, she created an eBay auction for her phone then announced it on social media.

“Will you buy my phone? Only two hours to bid!” Della Instagramed.

“Wonderful iPhone for sale. Only two hours to bid!” Della Facebooked.

“Get it while you can! #carpediem #2hourauction” Della Tweeted.

Two hours later, PayPal announced a four hundred dollar increase in their account.

Oh, and the next thirty minutes seemed to fly. She was going from online store to online store, to find a gift for Jim.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the online stores, and it was from a shop very close to them.

It was an original replacement engine for the VW van.

As soon as she saw it, she knew that Jim must have it. She paid the two thousand two hundred and seventy dollars for it. The owner of the shop was a fan, a subscriber to their YouTube channel, and promised it would be delivered within the hour.

What luck! To find the engine so close to their location and so close to Christmas!

Humming Christmas carols under her breath, Della quickly posted that “big things were afoot” and that she “might be off social media for a while” to her social media accounts then packed up her iPhone to be shipped to the winner of the eBay auction.

When Della had done this, her mind quieted a little. She began to think more reasonably. She started to try and cover the sad marks of what she had done. Love and large-hearted giving, when added together, can leave deep marks. It is never easy to cover these marks, dear friends – never easy.

Within forty minutes her head looked a little better and the engine had been delivered. “If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “after he realizes we can’t post to social media any longer. But what could I do – oh! What could I do with one thousand eight hundred and seventy dollars!”

At seven, Jim’s dinner was ready for him.

Jim was never late when he was out scouting new locations worthy of being photographed. Della held the colorful blanket that the engine lay on and sat cross-legged on the bed. Then she heard his step outside and her face lost color for a moment. She often said little prayers quietly, about simple everyday things. And now she said: “Please God, make him think the engine is nice.”

The van door opened and Jim crawled in. He looked very fit and he was not smiling. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-eight – and with only a couple hundred followers on Twitter!

Jim stopped inside the door. He was quiet as a hunting dog when it is near a bird. His eyes looked strangely at Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not understand. It filled her with fear. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor anything she had been ready for. He simply looked at her with that strange expression on his face.

“You’ve bought me an engine?” asked Jim slowly. He seemed to labor to understand what had happened. He seemed not to feel sure he knew.

Jim put his arms around Della. For ten seconds let us look in another direction. Two hundred dollars a week or a million dollars a month – how different are they? Someone may give you an answer, but it will be wrong. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. My meaning will be explained soon.

From inside the coat, Jim took something tied in paper. He threw it upon the blanket. “I sold the van to get the money to buy you the new iPhone.”

For there lay The Latest iPhone – the iPhone that Della had been reading reviews about for months. A beautiful iPhone with improved lenses and increased memory, perfect for taking selfies and pics of their van. She had known it cost too much for her to buy. She had looked at it without the least hope of owning it. And now it was hers, but the van was sold.

And then she cried, “Oh, oh!”

The magi as you know, were wise men – wonderfully wise men – who brought gifts to the newborn Christ-child. They were the first to give Christmas gifts. Being wise, their gifts were doubtless wise ones. And here I have told you the story of two influencers who were not wise. Each sold the most precious thing they owned in order to buy a gift for the other.

But let me speak one last word to the wise these days. Of all who give gifts, these two were the most wise. For when Della popped back onto social media that night using her new iPhone to tell their followers this story, Della and Jim went viral. Money and offers of sponsorship poured in. The lady who bought Jim’s van gave it back to him for nothing. The shop who sold Della the engine installed it for free. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are most wise. Everywhere they are the wise ones. They are the influencers.

#blessed #bestlife #vanlife

Mx Tynehorne’s link roundup, volume XVII

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A grainy picture of the Pleiades
It turns out astrophotography is not very convenient or good-looking on a smartphone. Who knew?

P.S. Lords of Misrule starts tomorrow. Hope you enjoy everyone’s submissions — i know i did! :-)

I like a lot of SCP stuff, but man, they really shot themselves in the foot by giving them all numbers and never using the “official” article titles. It makes it impossible to tell what people are talking about unless they’re talking about a really famous one like 173 or 3008: how am i meant to tell the difference between SCP-5031 the one where they realise torture is bad, SCP-3930 the one that doesn’t exist, and SCP-4999 the one who offers you one last smoke for the road, all great in their own right, when they all have iPhone passwords instead of names?

Dear Tate Modern, i have a very cool idea for an art exhibit that i think you would really like. P.S. I am not a crackpot.

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A man looking at two versions of Caspar David Friedrich’s “Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog” — the original, and a noticeably less good AI version

There’s been a lot of kerfuffle in the art world as of late about the ethics and capabilities of AI art (previously), and as Britain’s leading institution for contemporary art, you seem like just the right people to bring it to the public. My proposal is simple, but effective — let man and machine compete on equal footing.

Eight or so talented human artists will be given a prompt to work from. At the same time, the same prompt will be given to a state-of-the-art machine-learning algorithm, like Midjourney or Stable Diffusion. In the gallery, the two works — one made by metal, one made by flesh — will be hung side by side, and the audience will not be told which is which.

Next to each diptych will sit two bins where visitors can dispense plastic tokens (like the ones they have at Asda) to vote on which painting is their favourite. At the end of the exhibition’s run (or perhaps updating live; your call), the votes will be tallied up, and we’ll finally find out whether us or our creations are the better artists.

If you really wanted to provoke, you could ask the humans to provide you with a list of every painting they’ve ever seen, every photo they’ve ever taken, every film they’ve ever watched, and every song they’ve ever heard. Then you put that big list up on the wall, tell the visitors that Advanced Biological Neural Learning Algorithms have taken quote-unquote “inspiration” from all of these copyrighted works, and put to vote whether you should contact the rightsholders and ask them to sue. It would be only fair.

Chære and regards, Xanthe. P.S. — I am not a crackpot.

The Satyrs’ Forest’s 2022 word of the year

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Every December, every dictionary in the English language comes crawling out of the woodwork to reveal their “word of the year”: a single word or phrase that they deem to sum up the past twelve months. And every December, every dictionary in the English language cocks it up. I plan to fix that.

There are a few principles that a good “word of the year” pick should follow. For one, the word of the year should be a word, or at the very least, a phrase with a distinct meaning. You’d think this would be easy, but one of the Oxford English Dictionary’s nominees for 2022 was #IStandWith — a hashtag that only means, well, “i stand with”. See me after class, Oxford.

The word of the year should be from this year. It doesn’t have to have been coined this year, but it should, at the very least, have seen a spike in popularity: another nominee from Oxford was metaverse, invented by Neal Stephenson in 1992 but buoyed by Facebook’s trendy rebrand. Merriam-Webster1 are consistent failures in this regard, and this year’s pick was particularly egregious. Not only has gaslight been in use for years, but it was even the American Dialect Society’s pick for “most useful word of the year” all the way back in 2016!

People should have heard of the word of the year. I’m sorry to keep picking on Oxford here, but i highly doubt your average man on the street is familiar with the concept of going goblin mode.

Finally, the word of the year should last beyond this year; ideally, people will still be talking about it in a decade’s time. This is, to some extent, unknowable, but we in the present can take a good stab at it. We can surmise that 2007’s carbon footprint was a sturdier choice than 2006’s bovvered, and that 2014’s vape was a better selection than, say, loom band.

So then. What does that make The Satyrs’ Forest’s word of the year? It might not be a word, but as a phrase, it certainly has a meaning beyond the sum of its parts. It entered the public consciousness this year, and anyone in Europe who’s been paying any attention knows what it means. It is destined to enter the history books: though they might not use it in conversation, every time someone in 2122 looks up the history of the twenty-first century, our word of the year will be there, staring them in the face. It is:

special military operation

noun. (euphemistic) A war which cannot be referred to as such, particularly the 2022 Russian invasion of Ukraine.

Infamously coined by Vladimir Putin in his euphemistic February address, no single utterance has had as much impact on the year that was. I could have chosen Kyiv or slava Ukraini — but the word of the year is not an award for positive impact, and without special military operation, those two would be unlikely to have entered the popular lexicon. I could have gone with metaverse, but it’s an ugly word, and one on which i am personally bearish. Lettuce would have amused, but if i wanted to declare a British Word of the Year, i would have called it that in the first place.

So — “congratulations” to special military operation on its victory, which is probably the only such victory Mr Putin’s side will ever have. Let us hope that 2023’s defining phrase will strike a more optimistic note.

Back to the Future (2024)

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POV: Robert Zemeckis just died and you are a cynical Universal exec with dollar signs in your eyes.

Back to the Future
A poster showing a DeLorean with the tagline “You're gonna see some serious stuff”.
Theatrical release poster
Directed by Joseph Kosinski
Screenplay by
Based on
Starring1
Music by
Production
companies
Distributed by Universal Pictures
Release dates
  • June 7, 2022 (2022-05-27) (United States)
Running time
152 minutes[1]
Country United States
Language English
Budget $200 million[2]
Box office $985 million[3][4]
Sequels

Mx Tynehorne’s link roundup, volume XVI

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-jm6vL729GY
I heard this lovely song on Radio 6 and was shocked to discover it only had about two thousand views on Youtube. Go get it up to three thousand, will you?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CCp_3zw-CxA
Bonus music, because i love you. (Platonically. As much as an author can love a hypothetical reader whose life she knows no deta— you know what i mean.)

Arts and crafts: tidbits from Manchester

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In a gallery hangs a large landscape painting depicting the Gods and Goddesses of the classical world
I included this photo to show that the gallery still makes plenty of room for the “old masters” — but, to be honest with you, it sums up everything i dislike about some renaissance and baroque art. Just a huddled mass of mythological figures, with no life, no colour, no attention paid to the greater picture. Sad!

Manchester is not particularly renowned as a home for the aristocracy or patrons of the high arts, so i was pleased to discover upon a visit that the Manchester Art Gallery is one of the finest of its kind.

The Mag (as nobody calls it)’s success lies not in the size of its collection — it’s no larger than my local, the Laing — but in its presentation. Like many museums, its curators have lately been making efforts to diversify their collections and make them more relatable to the average yoof of today. It’s a process that can often come off as haphazard and rushed1, but the team at the Mag have pulled it off with care and respect.

A painting of a black woman covered in coal laying on a cloth-covered black table, as if deceased
Berni Searle, In Wake Of, 2014.

Newer works are dotted in each gallery in such a way that they complement, rather than denigrate, the greats of old. A visa rejection letter from a group of Pakistani artists hangs alongside Victorian paintings of eastern caravans; where a gallery about protest and revolution could have added some shrewd, vapid letterpress and called it a day, the museum’s curators have instead chosen to incorporate a thoughtful self-portrait by a South African painter, made in the wake of the Marikana massacre.2

A portrait of a dashingly handsome Shakespearean actor

The captions accompanying each artwork face a similarly complicated task. Be too conservative and you’ll disappear up your own arse into a world of romanticist masturbation; be too reactionary and you’ll come off as cloyingly didactic, engaging in pseudohistoric iconoclasm for iconoclasm’s sake. The Mag hit a stroke of genius here: after a brief description in the typical style, the captions adorning prominent works also include conversations and thoughts from a variety of perspectives, be it historians, curators, or the artists themselves. It’s a brilliant way to further inform the visitor without beating them over the head with one opinion, alienating them with arcane academese, or leaving out unsavoury histories.

A lit up colourful glass tapestry marked with traditional Ghanaian patterns
Someone, please, tell me what this painting is called. I have to know.

Other highlights on the lower floors include a portrait of the early black tragedian Ira Aldridge (the very first work in the museum’s collection, which rather surprised me coming from the people of 1858), a Ghanaian tapestry that i was surprised to learn was actually made of glass, and a lovely painting of an industrial scene lit by hazy fog whose name — to current me’s infuriation — i neglected to include in the photo, taken from an angle so inconvenient that reverse image search returns nothing of relevance. Past me is a bastard and i’m killing him when i get the chance.

Upstairs sit the gallery’s temporary exhibitions. The most prominently advertised was on the topic of the history of men’s fashion, something i regrettably could not get myself to muster up any interest in. I’m sure it’s quite interesting if that’s your sort of thing. The other (smaller) exhibition sits in a surprisingly grand hall which, from what i can tell, normally houses the museum’s pottery galleries, and it’s about tea. No wait come back i sw—

An all-black, marbled tea set

I jest, but there really is some fascinating stuff in there. The room’s cabinets are packed with advertisements, old jugs, and all sorts of other things detailing how hot drinks have shaped Britain and the world over the years — from sparking conversation to funding colonisation. But there was one thing that stuck out to me the most. A newly-created work of art, perhaps meant to inspire some thought or another in the viewer, but that our whole group agreed could only be described as one thing:

A collection of tea stoppers, hung on ropes in such a way that they really quite resemble a dreamcatcher made of buttplugs
Buttplug dreamcatcher.

PS: I had to ask what the abbreviation “dbl” (“double”) on the signs for upcoming trams meant. My poor exurban soul simply could not comprehend the idea of a transit system that consistently ran so punctually — i had been thinking it stood for something like “delayed by late”.

PPS: This was meant to be the last post in the series, but my rambling about the gallery got so out of hand that i thought i’d spin off its intended complement into its own part. Tune in next week3 for one last dispatch from Affleck’s Palace.

The Saturnine Rites of the Cult of Phanes

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Time travel is often thought of as a scientific affair, with precisely-calibrated equipment, sleek uniforms, and incomprehensible jargon. As any physicist can tell you, this is bullshit. It’s nonsense. It’s impossible. It’s a complete violation of the laws of physics.

…There’s a word for that, you know. It’s called magic.

The Saturnine Rites of the Cult of Phanes

The cult

Long ago, before the people of Greece knew alpha from omega, a priestly faun received a revelation. That faun’s name has been lost to time, but the cult he started, kicked out from his tribe for such incredible heresy, continued to grow in number well through the centuries, initiating hundreds into its mysteries — the mysteries of chronomancy.

The satyrs’ creed is simple: the Cultists of Phanes are to bring Bacchic joy and ecstasy to the people of the future, for our numbers are far greater than theirs, and they are to spread the word of peace and love. Many thousands of lives have been touched by them, and most will never even know it.

The physics of time travel

There is much disagreement even within the cult on the precise mechanics of chronomancy, but among its astrologers, a rough consensus had developed (prior to the return of Libanomene) on its approximate physics.

As Bill and Ted would put it, the clock is always running in San Dimas Delphi. The universe seems to have an unchanging “present”: while the future is fluid and can be changed as one likes, the past is set in stone, unchanging and unrachable.

The Saturnine Rites, as they are called, use magic to set a stable “anchor” from which our brave congregants are launched into the future. Once an anchor is set up, it takes far less effort for a chronomancer to return to whence they started; they need only perform a simple solo ritual with the materials strapped to their belt.

The rite

A solo traveller can accomplish hops of a few years by themself with a small stone circle and enough prayer, but serious business requires a serious ritual. The Great Saturnine Rite is the cult’s time-tested method of flinging their members up to a thousand olympiads into the future and bringing them back safely. It goes, roughly, as follows.

1. A circle of gypsum chalk — any material will do in a pinch, the closer to its natural form the better — is drawn on the ground in the form of a sigil, based by cult chronastrologers on the precise position of the stars and planets at any given time. (It often represents a date a precise amount of years in the future; this is not a physical limitation, merely something the cult likes to do to reduce the star-speyers’ workload.)

2. The ritual space is fumigated with lavender, rosemary, and cannabis, first introduced to the fauns by an uptime dealer, until the air is foggy and thick with smoke. This creates a trance-like effect once the already drunken fauns enter to begin the ritual proper; it is best done in a cave, building, or other enclosed space.

3. Our brave chronomancers enter, supplies and utility belt in hand. Due to the rite’s nature, they are always of an even number; the cult’s priests have attempted adaptations for one or three members, but they are far less effective. We will be assuming for the remainder of the description that there are only two within the circle.

4. The rest of the cult chants and dances in a ring around the circle, rhythmically howling and singing songs of praise, while the time-sailors within recite prayers and hymns to Gods whose names i am not party to.

5. With a toast to Dionysos, the two fauns within the circle eagerly drink up a small flask of hand sanitiser. This used to be a calyx-ful of wine, but modern advances in technology have allowed travellers to get far drunker, far faster. (The High Priest says He strongly approves.)

The Cult of Phanes are self-described “hippies” who eschew violence when out and about. The daggers they keep are blunted, used only to intimidate, and never to hurt. They keep bouquets of flowers in their hair, and preach a gospel of unity and equality. All this makes the final step of the ritual shocking to the unacquainted observer — but we must remember that much as they idealise peace and love, they are also an Orphic cult, one that deals in sacrifice and reincarnation.

6. The High Priest (or, if they will be tagging along for the ride, a priest of lower rank) hands one of the travellers a freshly sharpened scythe.

I am not a member of the cult myself, and this account is based only in the whispers i have heard from members in vino veritas; thus, i cannot attest to the precise meaning behind the rite. It seems to me to be derived from myths of Saturn, Dionysos, and (bemusingly) Mithras, but the cultists i have spoken to are all of the laity, and they have no more of a clue than i do.

7. In one fell swoop, one of the chronomancers slices the scythe through their hand and strikes the other with it in the calf. As drops of the two’s blood fall to the floor, the rite takes effect, transporting them and their belongings hundreds of years into the future. The only remnants are a blood-splattered scythe and a metallic taste in the air.

A few hours, days, or weeks later, the travellers materialise back in the circle, confident that they have successfully spread peace and love to the denizens of the future and ready to do it all over again.

The return of Libanomene

It is said that Hallowe’en is when the veil between spirit and matter is at its thinnest, and the same too goes for Saturnalia. Around the winter solstice, the fabric of time becomes far more susceptible to human (or satyr) intervention; far less work is needed to launch someone millennia into the future, or to send dozens of cultists on one trip. This is why Christmas (as we now know it) is such a wondrous time of the year. The troops in 1914, the warm family reunions, the children screaming with joy over their new gifts — all made possible, in some part, by the Cult’s activities.

But even in those weakened days, the laws of chronomancy held true, much to the chagrin of Phanes’ priests. The Gods are unchanging and eternal, exempt from our mortal notions of time; why, then, should prayer and magic be beholden to our earthly rules? It was by accident that, last year (1970 BCE to us uptimers), the cult discovered an exception.

It was high noon on midwinter’s day. The high priest Libanomene and their assistant Ombrosilphion were readying themselves for an expedition to gods-know-when, gods-know-why (the precise order of the day has been forgotten since), and as a ruddy scythe clattered to the floor, all seemed well. But, just as the cult’s other members were shuffling out the room to tend to other business, Libanomene returned to the circle in a state of frenzy, barely a few minutes after they had left. They claimed to have seen visions of a distant future, with their first and second eyes, no less, of dark golden clouds blotting out the sky, onyx-shard buildings cutting through, and — well, my drinking companion passed out before they could say what else was spoken of.

The priest’s assistant, however, was unaccounted for, and a search party set out. For days on end, they scoured Delphi’s hills and valleys, until they found the missing faun, battered, bruised, and broken-horned, in an ivy-covered ditch. Ombrosilphion was despatched back to the temple, wrapped in a woolen blanket, and fed a steaming bowl of soup. Once the trembling cultist mustered up the ability to speak, they revealed that they had been lying there, unsure of what had happened, for “seven days and seven nights”.

It had only been three days since the rite.

Lords of Misrule 2022 — let the misrule begin!

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This is a copy of the main page for this event.

The cycle of a year is a wonderful thing. Trees grow and wilt, rivers ebb and flow, and every winter, GĂŚa blankets Herself in a snowy coat. All across Europe, people gather together, huddling around, exchanging gifts. Most would call it Christmas.

For us? Well… Io Saturnalia!

It’s time for the second annual Satyrs’ Forest Lords of Misrule! In the spirit of the topsy-turvy season, i’m putting you in charge of the site.

If you write or put together something — absolutely anything — and email it to misrule@satyrs.eu, come Saturnalia (that’s December 17 to 23, for those who aren’t up to date with their ancient festivals) i’ll put it up on the site, both on the blog and on its own dedicated, permanent subpage, etched in stone for all to see.

Like last year, i would ask that you refrain from political polemics or anything that would get this noble forest in legal trouble. Apart from that, anything goes. Your gran’s chocolate cake recipe? An impassioned defence of Freddy Got Fingered as an ironic masterpiece? Hell, i’ll even let you vandalise one of the permanent pages for a bit if you ask me to. Whatever you — my lords of misrule — want.

You can submit your entries from today until the 16th of December, 2021. Have fun, and don’t be afraid to get weird with it!

— Xanthe

Old book smell: tidbits from Manchester

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Modern, Ikea-like bookshelves adorn the halls of an ancient library
The tail end of the room which houses the Central Library’s extensive music collection.

Manchester’s influences on British culture and life spread far and wide — music, politics, industry, TV — but it’s fair to say it’s not exactly renowned for its literary output. And yet, nevertheless, i found myself wandering the halls of two great libraries in Cottonopolis.

A ceiling stucco decorated with coats of arms

The first and grander of the two is the Manchester Central Library, whose imposing hall first squat itself upon St Peter’s Square in 1934. Upon walking in, there are a number of things the discerning visitor might notice. Hir eyes might wander upwards to the expertly crafted stained-glass window of Shakespeare and his protagonists, or all the way up to the ceiling, generously coated with the arms of authorities priestly, princely, and popular. Or, if our hypothetical visitor is a Geordie, shi might instead notice some things that the rest of the country’s eyes would gloss over: clean, well-designed signage; sleek open space; swooshy modern æsthetics… All paid for out of the council’s pockets.

A stained glass window depicting the works of Shakespeare

There are no decaying bridges, no council computers running Windows XP, no decade-old untouched brownfields. When ministers talk a big game about “levelling up the North”, this is the North they’re talking about. Cumbria? Newcastle? Middlesbrough? Isn’t that in Scotland? It’s best not to dwell on these things (for cynicism doesn’t do the mind good), but one can’t help but feel like they’re rubbing it in.

The Central Library is a treasure trove. It houses an impressive collection of musical paraphernalia, from sheet music to encyclo-glee-diæ to biographies of Saint Noel Gallagher. Its central atrium is home to the “archives plus”, where Mancunians can drill into their city’s history without needing to be fluent in acadamese. The reference library on the upper floors is so tightly packed that it uses mechanical bookshelves which reveal themselves with the push of a button. By all accounts, it serves the people of Manchester well. Perhaps that’s the problem: for a tourist like me, it’s hard not to get jealous.

The Portico Library is an older, humbler affair, constructed at the height of the industrial revolution and taking up but the first floor of its classically-inspired building. Anyone can enter, but i’m afraid the full collection is a members-only joint; my group were just here to check out a book a family friend had paid to be restored. (A page fell out while we were handling it. Whoops!)

While the back catalogues might be off limits to us plebes, there’s still plenty to pique the passing itinerant’s interest. The central hall is still decorated in its original homely Victorian fashion, having a delightfully idiosyncratic way of catalogueing its books: “biography”, “travels and voyages”, and “polite fiction” (a vestige of the time when the middle classes were still joining “polite” society).

A tiny, Middle Eastern-style cardboard house

An exhibition of architectural art circles the middle seating area. While much of it was the usual arty bollocks, i found myself captured by the adorable cardboard houses of Thu Le Ha, an artist and volunteer at the library. Ms Ha has a vanishingly small online footprint, but i hope she keeps at it — this is the sort of thing the world needs more of! Cute little whimsy.

And that’s all i wrote. Next up, some less wordy centres of Mancunian culture.

P.S. On the way back from the Sigur Rós gig, we bore witness to a throng of teenyboppers and weary parents making their way back from a different gig held at the famous Arena. What could possibly inspire such turnout from such a young crowd: Taylor Swift? Olivia Rodrigo? Some K-pop act i’d never heard of? Nope — they were there to see the Backstreet Boys.

Some things never change.

Mx Tynehorne’s link roundup, volume XV

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A parked lorry, late at night, bearing the name "Discordia" on its side.
Seen on the way back home from Manchester — why on earth would you call your logistics company “Discordia”? It’s like calling an airline “Icarus”. Just asking for trouble.

A jolly good show: tidbits from Manchester

¡ Tagged as Lancashire, Manchester, music, Sigur Rós, visits ¡ Leave a comment

Hello. I’ve been to Manchester. I thought i might tell you about it. Wait no come back i promise this isn't just showing you my holiday ph

The last time i went to that wonderful southern city, i was hardly ten years old, and hadn’t much of a chance to explore — a mistake i was itching to rectify this go around. Over the next few days i’ll be sharing some of the things i saw, heard, and third verb goes here.

First things first, our trip’s raison d’être: Sigur Rós were on a world tour, and though they might not have been schlepping up to Newcastle, i sure as hell wasn’t going to miss the chance to see them.

A case with some tea and incense strewn about, branded "Flotholt: Sigur Rós × Fischersund"

Sigur Rós are a post-rock band, and their gig made clear that it’s with a strong emphasis on the “post-”. It was an all-seated audience, with vanishingly little banter from the band (one has to imagine they’re not 100% confident in their English), excepting a brief pantomime bit at the end of „Andvari”. No complaints from me, though: a laid-back, almost classical atmosphere quite befits their ætheral soundscapes. I mean, could you imagine people going wild in the pit to „Vaka”?

As „Popplagið” came to a close and everyone shuffled out the venue’s doors, i noticed a curious item at the merch table: an officially licensed Sigur Rós tea and incense kit. What a world we live in. (I didn’t buy it — there was only one left, and i probably wouldn’t be the one to make the most use out of it.)

A Google Earth render of the skyline of Manchester, containing a modest few tall buildings
MAN WAS NOT MEANT TO LIVE LIKE THIS

As an official, Lisa Nandy–certified resident of a Town™, i was left slightly dumbstruck and intimidated by the dense forest of tall buildings that is Manchester’s city centre. Sure, it’s not like i’m a stranger to the idea of a city, but of the two big cities i have most haunted over the years , Newcastle only has a stumpy luxury apartment and a few council houses strewn about the suburbs, while Amsterdam’s skyscraper district is sectioned off behind the other side of a ring road, far from the centre of town.

But Manchester? Nay — Manchester is England’s second city, and they’ll show it any way they like! Dozens upon dozens of architectural phalli jut up from the ground in all directions, a veritable orgy of capital. I pray thee, have we as a species learnt nothing from the tales of Icarus and the Tower of Babel? Nothing‽ This is hubris writ large, i tell you!

Or, you know, something like that. Their green spaces don’t even have cows.

They both serve the same purpose, really, but i just want to rub in that where we up north has a fully-fledged metro, Manchester merely has to do with trams. Sure, ours might be delayed every five minutes, and theirs might be uber-reliable and extend throughout the urban area, but who’s really winning?

Montage of portraits of Emmeline Pankhurst and the brothers Gallagher
(I don’t actually know or care which Gallagher is which. Apologies.)

Manchester has no shortage of iconic residents — Morrissey, Danny Boyle, Burgess, Wanksy — but Mancunians have taken it upon themselves to idolise two people above all else. Everywhere you look, there are statues, plaques, and posters in their memory.

The first is Emmeline Pankhurst. An early leader of the suffragette movement, she and her allies often used violent tactics to get their way, from breaking windows all the way up to arson. You can see why the left-wing, industrial city, birthplace of the labour movement, would be proud to honour her.

The other is Noel Gallagher.

Naturally.