On the Sixth Day

When I were a lad, a certain Leo B Stanley, sometime DJ at Manchester Indie-Valhalla, The Venue, and proprietor of Identity Clothing in Affleck’s Palace, made a tidy little packet with his range of Manchester T-Shirts. These bore such legends as Manchester: North of England and Born in the North, Exist in the North, Return to the North, Die in the North, as well as This is not Manchester, this a trip. But the one which was taken up with most enthusiasm was ‘And on the sixth day, God created Manchester’. 

Some may think this latter statement is, at best, a clever pun, or at worst, a heinous blasphemy requiring correctional behavior involving hot spikes, rusty screwy things and a masked dwarf. I, however, think there is more than the smidgeon of truth in this. Only a Mancunian could have lived through the rain that Noah faced and built a boat on which to carry the band which made The House of the Rising Sun an international hit.

Being a Mancunian, I have a strained relationship with the rain. It is, simultaneously, an integral component of my cultural identity, and a wet pain in the arse. Or, more often, face.

The last few months have been kind enough to make sure I’ve never felt far from home wherever I’ve been in England. A summer of camping was accompanied by the grey symphony of celestial tears. The return to school has seen the persistent drizzle of a British Autumn. The last two days have witnessed an all-out assault on The North by the splashy elements. There have been days when it has seemed like the world is made of rain and that days of sunshine and clear skies have been the stuff that dreams are made of.

The slate sky deluge is lovely under certain circumstances.  All of these circumstances involve indoors, central heating and looking through a window. Sometimes there’s cocoa, sometimes there’s Stella. This week’s morning rain is ruined for me the moment I have to leave the house.  Sober. Another example of work metaphorically, and literally, pissing on me*.

Rain pervades British culture. Travis famously sang, questioningly, Why does it Always Rain on me?. ‘Because you’re shit’ was the obvious answer. Shirley Manson, of Garbage fame, fiercely claimed to be Only Happy When it Rains. This didn’t explain why she moved to L.A. though. Unless she meant it metaphorically and literally, and L.A.’s absence of real rain would be like emotional rain to her, thus making her happy. I may be over-thinking this. Or under-thinking it. Or not thinking it all. The point is, we’ve written a lot of songs about rain.

 James Dean was iconic in the rain. Macarthur Park’s cake got well and truly trashed in the downpour. The Cult loved it. Dustin Hoffman was a superhero who could harness its power**.

But I digress.  Rain. It’s wet, it’s outside, and it’s coming for you. Embrace the grey. Learn to love the dampness of being. It won’t be beaten ,and maybe, just maybe, you too can be a Mancunian, if even just for a day.

   *          I know this is only metaphorically. I’m not Alanis fucking Morissette. It just works better stylistically like this. Never let it be said I choose substance over form.

**     I’ve never seen Rainman. I assume this is what it’s about.