Manchester Report - Meet the Manc lasses: Saturday night in Manchester’s Deansgate

I Travel Meet the Manc lasses: Saturday night in Manchester’s Deansgate Locks district features a potent mix of scantily-clad, fake—tanned girl

Tlie24- liour panm HE Hacienda ‘•‘nightclub may
• now be luxuryapartments but its legend still casts a shadow
over Manchester; and while England 5 reluctantly named second city trumpets its reputation for sporting excellence in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games, many a Mancunian still hankers for the late Eighties, when “Manchester” was a mecca for pill-popping party people rather than prawn- sandwich-eating businessmen on an Old Trafford hospitality package.
The release this Friday of the movie 24-Hour Party People — which tells the story of those hedonistic days of Factory Records, acid house and The Hac, as the club was known to regular~ will
of glories past. But on this chilly Saturday night, the mission is to find nightlife now
It’s 9pm and ludicrously underdressed girls with corned-beef legs huddle at Piccadilly’s bus and tram stops as I head south down Portland Street to the recently completed Deans- gate Locks, at the edge of the historic Castlefield district. Here, six bars and the Comedy Store have been built into railway arches beneath Deansgate station.
The Sugar Lounge, which hosted Manchester United footballer Dwight Yorke’s birthday bash last November; has been described by
A new movie revisits Manchester’s
Hacienda club heyday back in the
Eighties. That was t~n, this is no~
one unimpressed local as “Ryan Giggs territory”. Crossing the lock bridge, it’s clear from the dejected looks of several men in front that they have failed to breach the defences of the pretty girl with the clipboard who must keep out the facially and fiscally challenged. Employing my best famous-footballer smile, I’m m — and confronted with
two high-backed cream thrones, which beg the arrival of Posh and Becks. Built into a single arch, the linen drapes, autumnal hues and wooden bars are warm and welcoming. Up on the mezzanine, the DJ provides a deep, soulful mix of R ‘n’ B groove for a sea of bouncing, jaffa-tanned cleavages belonging to real-life Chardonnays looking for
their night in a shiny Porsche.
Disappointingly there’s n a whiff of celebrity he except for a Nicky B~ (Manchester Utd midfield look alike attracting seco glances from certain high heeled quarters coming 0 of the ladies’ (signed “Sug Babes”). One ageing Lothario is attempting pour pink champagne down
Far from grim up North: “Six top bars next to each other — it’s the easiest pub crawl in the world”
Evening Standard Wednesday, 3 April 2002 63
~ Manchester Utd footballer lookalikes

y people the knickers of a squealing young blonde, who continues to get jiggy to Mary J Blige. Cue exit. Several doors down is the Loaf Bar, occupying two full- height arches of exposed brickwork. The cream-tiled floor and long bar add to the airy feel. Tara and Izzy from London, are lounging on the circular brown leather chairs supping gin and tonics. They are celebrating a friend’s birthday with a weekend up North. “We love it here,” they enthuse. “Six top bars next to each other it’s the easiest pub crawl in the world and everyone is up for having a laugh.” The growing crowds outside, clearly visible from inside any of the glass- fronted drinking holes, create a voyeuristic buzz for both sides and Tara is waving at the shivering masses. As the filtered chorus of Kylie’s Can’t Get You Out of My Head ifils the air around midnight, I dash for a cab.
Y destina
~Ktion is

I~IE Sankey’s I~IE Soap, a 15- minute cab ride across town to the north-east fringes the club some Mancunians feel is the natural successor to the Hacienda sits in a virtually derelict wasteland. Joining the queue, I meet a trio of Neanderthal bouncers whose social skills would put Vinnie Jones to shame. I eventually make it in and find the land that time forgot: inside this sparse, industrial space they’re partying like it’s 1989, with banging house beats producing almost com ically dated rave moves from a predominantly male crowd larging it on the sunken dance floor With one bar, a simple seating area and a bone-shaking sound system, this has all the hallmarks of an old-school illegal rave but without the energy and enthusiasm. Heading back into town, my last stop is the subterranean Music Box, in Oxford Street. It’s 2am and there is a fierce heat from the sea of bobbing heads in the main room, where funky hip-hop turntablists Jake and Ollie (from The Herbaliser) are chopping up old-school funk and breaks on four decks. Camden Market chic woolly hats, retro track suit tops and shell-toe trainers is de rigueur among the student crowd. The friendly dance floor frenzy is reminiscent of Hoxton’s much- missed Blue Note club — as the crowd yelps its approval I think I’ve finally found where Manchester’s Party People have been hiding.

Paul Clark travelled to Manchester with VIrgin Trains (08457 222333, www.virgin.com/trains); weekend returns from £40. He stayed at the centrally located Atrium Central Apartments (0161 237 3367; www.central apartments.com), five minutes’ walk from the Music Box; studios from £115 a night self caterIng. For further information, call the North West Tourist Board (0845 600 6040).

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