Sexy young things in the city and the bump and grind from Mumps

HAVING to be in Manchester city centre for 8am presented a particular challenge for one who does not see himself as a morning person.

There was an upside, I reasoned, as I waited for the 7.15am out of Mumps Station.

I was seriously expecting to read my favourite morning paper (The Guardian, seeing as you ask) while I multitasked — a word the women in the office are fond of using — by contemplating the scenery through soon-be-regenerated Hollinwood and into that grey area of Oldham that really thinks of itself as Manchester. Yep, Failsworth. It’s still there — will it be inside the congestion charging ring, I wonder, making the good folk of this southern outpost of the borough even more rebellious and Manchester-centric?

On that congestion charge note, to digress for a second, I can’t see it happening at all now that there is to be a local referendum on the issue. Everyone wants the Metrolink but no-one wants to pay, certainly not the motorist, that’s for sure.

Anyway, back to to the 7.15 out of Mumps. Having secured my ticket (£4.90 return) from a mildly eccentric, rock-singing guy whose voice was distorted by the electronic gadgetry in his glass partition I waited for my chosen mode of transport and was genuinely shocked to find there was standing room only.

All the way into Victoria.

I couldn’t contemplate anything other than staying on my feet as the carriage became ever more crowded as we rocked and swayed through the emotively named stations — Oldham Werneth, Dean Lane, evocative of many a late-night ride home from the city centre when I have been far too relaxed to even hear the names, let alone recognise them.

No-soon-enough I was exiting the train and contemplating the long walk to Manchester Metropolitan University where a press of eager-beaver PR types, members of the Manchester branch of the Chartered Institute of Public relations, were awaiting their guest speaker.

Aside from possibly two people, one of whom was the chair of this august gathering, I felt like a grand-dad in the assembled company of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed mostly drop-dead gorgeous young things who probably hadn’t even been to bed, let alone struggled with the thought of getting up early. Yet there they were, drinking coffee and scoffing croissants as if their lives depended on such sustenance. They had been lured by the promise of an audience of an ageing hack who would tell them how to get stuff from their clients into the Oldham Evening Chronicle.

It was an enlightening 90 minutes with the questions flowing fast and furiously as the beauties — even the guys looked sexy, honest — made copious notes and drank even more copious quantities of still water from their ubiquitous plastic bottles.

Having made this connection with the city centre’s newest movers and shakers I can now contemplate a life of ease as the stories flow into my email. Except the stories will be about surveys and local (i.e Manchester) reflections of national issues.

As I returned to my safe haven in the Chronicle newsroom I was able to contemplate how lucky I am not to have to travel to Manchester every day. The sun shone brightly on the day I made by epic odyssey from Delph to Aytoun Street, imagine how horrid it would have been had there been heavy rain?

All those umbrellas and raincoats and dripping people pressed together in the crowded confines of the 7.15 from Mumps? There’s something to savoured about working in good old Oldham...