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MCR
MANCHESTER
A L R I G H T R K I D? 0161. Manchester. The creative hive of the North West. A city built on brawn, strength and camaraderie. A place filled with ambitious souls and northern pride. Football fans chanting songs from their stands and musicians singing loud from their hearts. Outer city boroughs encompassing the spirit of The North. Our reputation of grey skies, misty nights and harrowing downpours doesn’t faze us. It has become part of this place. The weather belongs here just as much as we do. It’s familiar, like a well-known face or a house hold name. When the sun does come, we embrace it. The shirts come off. The umbrellas down. Nothing is taken for granted here. It’s easy to see why people are so passionate about this place. The different cultures. The multiple walks of life. The obvious pride which resides here. You cannot miss it. Just walk through the Northern Quarter and see the buzzing street art or even on the lampposts throughout town. The bee. The worker bee. It represents our hard-working past, our determination. It is true that when times are hard us Mancunians pull together as one city. This publication looks to celebrate what makes this northern city so great. The streets, the architecture, the people, the memories, the future and everything in-between. Tales of creativity, letters of love and the dearest of memories. Enjoy.
ISSUE ONE Issue one of 0161 looks at the creativity and strength behind the females of this city. Young and old. The girls who call this city home. The girls who have grown up here, have memories here and the girls who will always come back here as there is only one Manchester.
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TATTU Photography & Styling Emma Smallwood Model & Hair Styling Dominique Skolosdra
0161 08 Dominique Skolosdra. Doll. 22-year-old student from Mossley, Greater Manchester, now studying in Newcastle. Doll’s unique style and painted skin are just small perfect examples of the individual and characteristic personalities which swim through this northern city. Northern Quarter, King Street, Exchange Square. You can catch idiosyncratic styles in any of these places. Whether it is abstract hair styling, sartorial elegance or inked up skin, Manchester’s streets never fail to impress in creativity. The bee is now an incredibly well-known figure of Manchester. The bee tattoo is another familiar signifier of Mancunian strength and pride. Summer of 2017 saw 10,000 people from around the world inking their skin with the Manchester bee to show support and raise money for the city and those affected by the events of May 2017.
“Im very attached to Manchester, it’s my home and it’s one of my favourite cities. When that happened I was literally taken back, nothing worse than feeling helpless in a time like that. Tattoo artists started to offer Manchester Bee tattoos in exchange for £50 donations, I didn’t even think about it, I messaged my artist in Newcastle and got it done the same day, sending the donation online. It might not seem like helping a lot but it signifies unity and standing up proud for my city, a place some people thought they could destroy.” Says Doll on set of this photoshoot. Doll’s insight into Manchester and her passion towards her home city is something all Mancunians share. The bee tattoo is the perfect way of sharing this passion.
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Dominique
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Im very attached to Manchester, it’s my home and it’s one of my favourite cities.
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D o m i n i q u e, 2 2, S t u d e n t
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I
The Bee in Me
As I step onto the platform off an overly packed train at Shudehill Station ...a crisp, cool breeze rushes against my skin, forcing the hairs on my arms to sharply stand on end. A collection of strands break lose from my hair band and sweep across my eyes, blurring my vision. As I regain my sight and focus on the road ahead my heart begins to jitter. An old and decrepit building stands tall in front of me, the ground floor now filtered with coffee shops and bars. As if Manchester’s Northern Quarter needed any more. My gaze remains fixated on the central store of the ground floor as I make my way over the tramlines and down the cobble sidewalk.
As I approach my destination and reach out to push the door handle of the glass entrance, my hand feels heavy and unstable as though each finger is being individually tugged down. My palm collapses onto the iron handle in front of me and my eyes shift once again over the withered architecture I am forced to enter. Artwork encapsulating the glass pain door catches my gaze. The outline of two large wings and six craggy legs stretch out from a yellow and black striped body, reminding me of my commitment to go through with this decision. I step into the store and the fierce sound of buzzing rattles in my ears, replacing the thud of my ever escalating heartbeat. My ten minute wait feels like a lifetime with each tick of my watch seeming further and further apart. The sound of my name echoes the surroundings as I hesitantly rise to my feet, legs buckling and slowly approach the leather seat adjacent to me. My fingers wrap around the arm of the chair and peel the leather loudly. The thudding of my heart resounds in my ears and I am again engulfed in hysterical nerves. I lay on my side. Stretch my t-shirt above my ribs onto my chest and wait for the anguish to begin. The needle etches in and out of my skin at jagged angles and the pain I was anticipating subsides, leaving me with a thrilling yet prickling sensation as I watch the ink stain my waistline. The sharp shots of thin metal shiver my flesh, leaving thin outlines of black and small droplets of blood down the side of my back. The buzzing of needles which had caused my nerves to swell just moments ago now seemed to lull my thoughts into distraction.
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My eyes journey over the flaming red facial hair of the tattoo artist and onto the customers surrounding me. Contorted facial expressions and silent curse words decorate their profiles. My gaze falls to their halffinished tattoos and I begin to ponder on their motive for this permanent artwork. The outline of a wing is being stencilled onto the tanned skin of the customer directly opposite me. The lines continue down her arm, accompanied by the inscription, “stay strong, our kid.� Her eyes meet mine and I quickly revert my attention back to the burning of my own skin only to realise the burning has ceased and my once bare, pale skin has been replaced by smooth solid lines with curved edges and fine shading. I joyfully thank the artist, handing him my money...
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Happy to be contributing to a solemnly good cause and I go on my way, smoothing my ridged, inky new wings as I rejoin the city. .
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Photography // Styling EMMA SMALLWOOD
RUSH RUSH
Model EMMA WALSH
Rusholme A PHOTOSTORY
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HOLME HOLME
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“This city is full of so many different people. You can step out of your own front door and see so many different passerby’s walking so many different lives, all in one city. The different cultures, religions, ethnicities. It isn’t the biggest city in the world but the variety of people here makes it feel so.
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E m m a, 2 3, T r a i n e e I n t e r i o r D e s i g n e r
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Illustrations Josie Sproson & Emma Smallwood // Greater Manchester
Love Letters To Manchester
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Josie, 18, Greater Manchester I think what I love most about my city is the small things. All the small things. The unnoticeable things. The forgotten and unappreciated things. Mostly, the taken for granted things. The sound The Beetham Tower makes when the wind glides passed it’s crystal clear windows. The way the light ripples through the icy Salford Quays. I like to stop when I’m walking through town. Take a minute out of my day, blur out the busy passerby’s and silence the car horns, buses and sounds of the city and just look up. Look up at the buildings, the architecture. The old and the new. The Cathedral on Victoria Street or the Central Library. Manchester Metropolitan University’s Benzie Building or the business school. It’s not just the architecture I love though, I am an architect, now studying at Sheffield but some of my best inspiration has come from the people of Manchester, the inhabitants. I love to draw and a person’s style or facial expression can serve for some of the best inspiration for my artwork, and where better to find such varied style and people than the city of Manchester, I love it.
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Emma, 22, Bury I wake up to the familiar sound of raindrops thrashing against my window as I roll over and tap my iPhone. Seven fifty am. I breathe a sigh of relief, shrinking back into the warmth of my duvet and returning to sound sleep. I am awoken again, this time to the sound of Noel Gallagher picking at his guitar and Liam screaming “She’s Electric,” through my radio. Staggering to the kitchen I pop the kettle on and pour myself a brew. Peering out my flat window I see the sight of a car park I have become so accustomed to... or is just the Mancunian Way motorway at nine am on a weekday? “Pour sods,” I breathe into my cuppa, taking a sip and settling it back on top of a stack of Manchester Evening News newspapers. My flatmate Paddy, appears from his room in the clothes from the night before. “Morning our kid,” he yawns with a nod, I raise my brew up with a, “morning cock,” and resume my gaze out onto the city I call home. “Raining, again,” I sigh, picking up my knee length, navy mac and slipping into my white Adidas Superstars. At least they used to be white, now they’re more of an off-white mixed with puddle water and cigarette ash. Leaving my apartment block I catch a glimpse of Charlie, the homeless guy who’s made permanent residence for himself outside the Northern Quarter carpark. “Mornin’ mate!” He calls out as I dodge in and out of the rain. I nod in his direction before charging into the nearest Greggs for another cuppa and my morning sausage and bean bake ritual. I sink my teeth into the crunchy, crisp pastry and my mouth fills with the familiar warmth and texture of a good old Mancunian brekky.
Leaving Greggs and walking past the town hall I glance up at the time on the colossal clock fixated on the south facing column, shielding my eyes from the pelting beads of water falling from the too familiar greys skies above. The clock strikes one pm as I climb aboard the number 43 to Wythenshawe. “Quick stop off at me nans for a hot Vimto, before Coronation Street and I should be back in time to meet Paddy at The Swan in Salford. Ready for the United vs. Huddersfield game,” I ponder to myself as the bus swings round Oxford Road towards Rusholme. Down Wilmslow Road, through the Curry Mile I am met by the neon clad curry capital of Manchester. My mouth begins to water as my tastebuds recall the succulent Baltis my dad and I used to down before a match. “I’ll call in on my way home,” I consider as the bus swims through Fallowfield, tidal’s of rain water collected in the crevices of the street, drenching hungover students as we pass. Once at my nan’s she slowly hands me the drink of my childhood. As the warm, fruit infused, herbal beverage sinks into my mouth, a sense of nostalgia engulfs me, transporting me to a time of contentment and carefree excitement. Sitting with my nan in the home she refuses to separate from, watching a spot of Corrie, I am almost remorseful to leave and head back into town. A kiss on the cheek as insists on handing me a tenner, an age old tradition. “You don’t get owt for nowt,” she reiterates. And I’m back on the number 43. Paddy spots me first in The Swan, manoeuvring around the crowd of tipsy footy supporters getting the drinks in before the game. One and a half pints in his hands, probably spilt the other half on some poor bloke. “Let’s ‘ave it, our kid,” he cheers swinging his dampened arm around my neck, tipping what was left of his pint onto the unlucky lass behind me. “Sorry love!” He slurs as she storms off to the ladies. A few more pints and we’ll have the United chants going in no time!
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Charlotte, 28, Prestwich Growing up in Greater Manchester to me meant growing up in a town in North Manchester. I have memories of rolling up our pleated blue checkered skirts and untucking our white shirts after school and walking up to meet the boys, through the underpass to the bus station. Us girls would chat and giggle whilst the boys would scrap or run to the corner shop to buy the girls sweets and pop. The 474 bus or Altrincham metro link would come and go five or six times until there were only a few of us left to say our goodbyes, before returning at four o’clock the next afternoon to repeat the after school ritual. School weekends meant catching the Altrincham met to Victoria Station every Saturday to meet our friends from neighbouring schools and colleges in town. We’d walk to Urbis or Piccadilly Gardens and chill and chat for hours whether it was seventeen degree semi blue skies in summer or 3 degree gales in winter, we were just happy to be out in the city we called home. We’d watch movies in the Printworks cinema or go vintage shopping in COW before it moved to the Northern Quarter. When we got hungry we’d walk to Nexus Art Cafe and listen to music and meet new people before it started getting late and we’d walk back to Victoria Station with our return ticket, arms linked and giggling to catch the Bury met back home. Now we’ve grown up and moved away from home, some of us away from Manchester all together. We still meet up with the girls and lads from school. A few drinks at the pub or a bit of food in Spinningfields, Ancoats or wherever, we still reminisce on our school days and how we love to have grown up in Manchester.
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Joan, 83, Harwood
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I met Harry in 1953. He lived in Salford at the time and I lived in Ancoats. We met at the Parade Baths. It was a pool that they used to cover with wood to make a wooden dance floor and we used to dance for hours. Usually every weekend or so. We moved in together in 1960 and had our first daughter in 1963 and my youngest in 1965. My fondest memory of this time were the sweetshops. Our five sweetshops in Greater Manchester. We had our first on Butterstile Lane in Prestwich and we lived above it at the time. It was only small but it was a good start. Then we moved to Alkrington and opened another in Failsworth on Lord Lane, the third was in Bury, the fourth in Swinton and the fifth in Heywood. When the girls were young we used to catch them nicking from the sherbet jar and we’d all laugh, pink sugar covering their lips. When they were old enough they began to work there themselves. I loved it. Our own little family business. They weren’t open too long the sweetshops and the girls grew up and had girls of their own. I recall the times my granddaughters used to ask what myself and their grandad did when their mothers were young and I loved telling the stories of the two little girls with pink dust around their mouths, who lived with their mother and father above a sweetshop. It is like a nursery rhyme or a children’s story, but that is my fondest memory of Manchester I think.
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the manchester bee Words Emma Smallwood Photography Josie Sproson
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“Make us a brew, would you?” He said to his missis, As he got home from work, Filling her face with kisses. “Put your feet up,” she replied, “And I’ll pop the kettle on,” As he sat in his chair, You know the one. It’d been a long drive, Down the M66, Rush hour had hit, His head filled with politics. Of an ‘ard day gone by, In the offices in town. With his cheeks in his hands, His head, facedown. Solid meetings in Ancoats, Spinningfields and Northern Quarter. The inner city boroughs, Us Mancs, their supporters. Now he’s back at the gaff, With a brew on the go, And the tea’s in the oven, But what’s left to show?
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For his angin’ days at work, Bills payin’ and back achin’. But his northern pride, So strong, never shakin’. For the city he resides in, With his wife and his family. The history of this place, Built on camaraderie. She hands him his cuppa, Clouds of steam in his eyes. The warmth in his weary hands, The days old demise. “What’ve you done today love?” He’s asks rubbing his eyes. “Nowt,” she responds, Though her makeup says otherwise. She’s been down in Salford, Collyhurst and Rusholme, Helping the schools out, Speeding to get home. To get the tea on the table, Bangers and mash, While her sons still out, Probably smoking some hash.
“Alright R kid?” He’d said to his mate, As they’d strolled into college, Twenty minutes late. “Top night that one!” “Yeah it was sound.” They’d been for a pint, Down in the Rose & Crown. “Watching the game tonight?” City vs. West Ham, “Can’t tonight mate,” Having tea with the fam. Caught the 135 home, Down Bury New Road, Stopped off at his mates, Chipped the money he was owed. Now he’s walking past top Co-op, Called in for a tinny, Four pack of Fosters, Mum won’t be happy, Cause they’ve been out working, Long ‘ard weeks, But it all pays off, To see the kids faces, grinning from cheek to cheek. Now we’re sat round the table, Sharing stories of a day gone by, I don’t know how they do it me mum and dad, Tired from the graft and not even a sigh. Because Manchester’s our home, The hive of creativity, And I’m the child of a man, so proud to be, A Manchester Bee.
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“I think what I love most about my city is the small things. All the small things. The unnoticeable things. The forgotten and unappreciated things. Mostly, the taken for granted things.
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J o s i e, 1 9, T r a i n e e A r c h i t e c t
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As You Were