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I had no idea what to do on the last day of my fortnight off. It was Thursday evening and the ideas bank had run dry. Did I want to fritter it away on a half-baked and almost certainly impossible ideal of spending the day immersing myself in my art and emerging, tired but exhausted, with tens of thousands of words of tortuous but glittering prose to show for it? Or, in less flowery language, get up late, spend all morning on the internet, eat some toast, watch Have I Got News For You, waste another couple of hours on the internet, fall asleep in the bath and doze through Friday evening’s telly. No, said I. So I went for a walk and told myself I wasn’t going home until I had a plan. Red-cheeked, toasty-handed and with a vague plan in my head, I went home and spent the rest of the day on the internet, eating toast, sleeping in the bath and watching Have I Got News For You. The plan was this – go back to the Imperial War Museum at Salford Quays to see the new exhibits, the Horrible History exhibition and generally have a wander. Then actually go to the shops and have a mooch. A couple of years ago, shopping was all I ever seemed to do. But since I’ve started actually going to places, the old shopping side has looked distinctly second rate. However, Christmas is rapidly approaching and that means solid people as far as the eye can see. The entire month of December can be written off well in advance as just about everywhere with so much as a newsagents or milk bar will be crammed with people who shouldn’t be there if the economists in the government can be believed. They keep adding new bits to Manchester as it is regenerating. Not all in one go – a few pyrotechnics and you’re suddenly standing in Leeds – but slowly and glossily over time. It actually made me think back to what the Arndale Centre used to be like. But more anon. I warn you now that I was in a somewhat pretentious mood as I got off the tram and rummaged out my digital camera. It’s still living in a thick old sock by the way. A camera case is STILL on my to-buy list. I just seem to have a black spot for things that are so utterly and completely practical. So a blue, Christmassy, Mr Perfect slipper sock it is. That’s the Mr Men version of Mr Perfect for those wondering. God I’d love a pair of Curt Hennig socks. I know he died of a massive cocaine overdose but he was great. I don’t know where the sock came from and I don’t have another one to match it. It may have been a freak washing accident or possibly some sort of Christmas present cock up. At this very moment, Banana is wondering why she is hanging up a Christmas stocking with a wrestler’s face on it that plays a stirring knock-off of the theme from "Exodus" when you squeeze it. Anyway, my pretentiousness took advantage of the nice day – rarely a cloud in the sky to trouble the low slung sun – to photograph the buildings reflected in the water. I know – hate me now. Get it over with.
Last time I think I wrote how far away the War Museum was from everywhere. Such a slog to get to and when you get to it, another slog all the way round. This turns out to be piffle – the confused conclusion of someone who didn’t know the way. It is a stone’s throw from everywhere else and can be reached, even while looking for reflections to photograph, in the drop of a hat. On the way I noticed this building which I think was in every single episode of BUGS. It’s like the anti-ITC in that it is singularly unrecognisable and therefore will pass for anywhere in the world.
Before I get letters (letters? Ha) I know BUGS was shot around London. I was being amusing. But this is exactly the sort of building they used so – apparently – German, French, Italian, Spanish (basically foreign viewers) would think the programme was filmed in their country. The lip-synching gives it away but it was a brave idea. This building on the other hand is apparently owned by the evil Federation from Blake’s 7 if the logo is any indication. I didn't see anyone wearing a tight black uniform and a gas mask but I understand there are special clubs for them now so maybe they don't need to wander around in public.
So I get to the museum, pleased that the day is going well so far, and I see that which chills the heart of any week-day visitor. The school coach.
Lots of school coaches.
This was going to be packed. The tank – pointing its gun at the coaches – seemed to have the right idea.
A burly security guard checked my bag on the way in. He didn’t say anything about the Mr Perfect sock that was now empty and lying at the bottom like a shark (you have to read these in order to spot the odd remark like that). He seemed happy and sent me on (in true Popplewick style) to the next stage of processing. Entrance is free but the woman on the till wanted my postcode, tried to sell me the same brochure I bought last year, warned me that I couldn’t sell any photos I took in the museum (damn, said with irony) and couldn’t take any photos at all in the Horrible History exhibition (damn, said very much without irony). She then gave me a sticker saying I was authorised to use a camera in certain parts of the building. My full review of the museum can be found elsewhere so I’ll just touch upon a few new items or – more likely – things I didn’t notice last time. Like this home-made ukulele built by a prisoner of war to keep up morale with some popular songs of the day.
Or this flame thrower from one of His / Her Majesty’s ships.
These ribbons were apparently sold by the Germans to commemorate victories and raise funds for further excursions. Germans buying souvenirs of wartime victories is rather like English people buying sticker albums before football tournaments – deep down you know you’ll end up shoving it in a bitter draw when you ultimately lose.
Ever wondered how to keep a goat during war time? The Ministry had some sound advice for a mere seven currency units.
This is an actual document from the peace conference in 1919. They were there to discuss peace, peace and more peace. I can’t resist the Sir Humphrey quip from Yes Prime Minister, "If there’s only one item then it’s an agendum."
A topical one now following the controversy surrounding the BNP members list that has been circulating the internet. It’s propaganda for Britain’s chicken in a basket would-be fascist leader, Oswald Mosley. We didn’t want fascism then and we don’t want it now. That’s the British way. You’re talking nonsense, you look absurd, your marching doesn’t impress anyone and you should get rid of that slug you’re balancing on your upper lip. We’re passionately and resolutely middle of the road in this country and we’ll fight to stay that way.
An old favourite – the Trabant. I mentioned this to someone and she asked what on earth a Trabant thought it was doing in a war museum. I explained that it has become a symbol of the end of the cold war, the tearing down of the Berlin Wall and the meeting of East and West. She just tutted. I think she prefers things from when we bashed the Bosh.
These next two go together quite well I think. It’s entirely unintentional I can assure you. First we have an air balloon and then the inside of a gun thing from a plane. Two very different things. But is it me or can you put the two together and get a remake of "Rise of the Cybermen"?
Looking down the barrel of a tank. I don’t know about you but this would be about the moment my principles would suddenly go on holiday and I’d slope off to join the compliant masses leaving the demo.
It’s a wacky vehicle which defies explanation until you read the explanation. That’s pretty much the text book reason for having an explanation.
We get right up to date with this sign. Somewhere in Iraq there are some lost people because the road sign has been pinched. "Bloody kids" says one Iraqi. "I’ve heard it’s in a museum in Manchester" says the second Iraqi. "Where?" says the first. "You know – Bobby Charlton" says his friend. "Ah yes – comb over" declares the first Iraqi and they laugh until they’ve forgotten that they are now lost and will probably die of thirst while searching for Basrah.
Nothing more to add to this except that it sums up how the museum is built - the poppy is projected onto one of the silos which stands within the otherwise open plan room.
Have I shown you these before? It’s some newspapers from the Falklands War. On the left we have our classic publications and on the right some from Argentina. Museums are meant to be educational and I’ve learned that scummy journalism is a universal language. It's a language mostly comprising grunts and primitive genital clutching but it is understood by scummy hacks the world over.
There was a time when this poster would’ve been the – snigger – highlight of a school trip. Everyone on the coach home would be muttering about the bit which said "fuck". These days they're probably having sex or taking drugs on the way back to school. If they actually go back to school that is.
They are still playing the scary 1970s nuclear war film. The one that tells you what to do when (when – not if) a nuclear explosion destroys the country. It is corny, laughable and quite the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. They cover such topics as what to do if someone in your family dies (label the body, wrap it in plastic, label it again and – if you’re in the shelter for more than a week without being rescued – venture out and bury it in a marked ditch). All very practical but enough to make you think the bomb is about to drop and that you’ve no hope of surviving it.
I don’t know why but this looks like the lighter side of war gases. It’s basically a cardboard version of an iPhone application and – as it’s the size of a dinner plate – I can’t imagine many carried it round with them.
This was in the café – Oxo and milk? Is that not the single most revolting thing you can possibly imagine? I've mentioned it to a few people since and they've all gone green and asked for fresh air.
This is all I can show you of the Horrible Histories exhibit. I don’t know why cameras were banned – I’d like to think it was because there was copyrighted stuff and they didn’t want people spoiling the ending. But part of me thinks it’s because the exhibit is aimed at children and they didn’t want flocks of paedophiles coming down and getting snap-happy.
On the plus side, it is a good way to teach children about history. The Horrible Histories books are well thought of, successful and anything which makes history come alive is a good thing. I’m a fan of the history and keeping it away from lists of battles and the precise dates of monarchs is a good thing. But there were bits I didn’t like. And bear in mind that I only spent quarter of an hour in there because it was absolutely packed with children and I somehow managed to go the wrong way round so it was a depressing journey from victory downwards. The aftermath of the war saw two hugely significant events. The men came back from the trenches and the women who had been working the factories were out of a job. This was described as "The miserable men" (because everything had to be alliterative which really annoyed me) coming back and booting the women out because they were sexist pigs who thought a woman’s place was in the home. I’m paraphrasing after "the miserable men" but that’s what it said. I’m all for feminism but these "miserable men" had just fought a FUCKING WAR and it is not unreasonable for them to come home and not be left to starve in the gutter. Quite aside from the husband working and the woman staying at home being the accepted norm at that time. Even when trying to make history accessible to all, we should never re-write history according to current beliefs so as to make villains out of people who were doing nothing wrong. Some women may have been cheesed off that they couldn’t work the production lines any longer but I’m sure many more were delighted that their loved ones had survived the FUCKING WAR and come home. Teaching a generation that the men who survived were sexist bastards is so massively disrespectful that this whole exhibition gets a thumbs down from me. Then they actually make it worse when they talk about the flu epidemic which killed more people in a year than the war killed in four years. "I survived four years in the trenches and when I got home I died of flu!" says one jolly wall. It is followed by a cartoon in which a returning soldier says more or less the same thing but hilariously dies of flu before he can reach the punchline. Again, these men fought in a FUCKING WAR and deserve better than to be part of a comical re-enactment of a plague which killed twenty million people. I’m sure there was much to inform and entertain in the exhibition but the volume of children and those two bits of "history" were enough to put me off spending any longer in there. I’m sure the good outweighs the bad but the bad offended me so I left. I left to go shopping. It was a mistake. Even though I’d missed the lunch hours, the place was still packed. From this I deduced that school is optional these days as a fair chunk of the massed hoards seemed to be of an age where education should be being hammered into their heads by a depressed man in a cardigan. The only good bit was seeing a couple trying to kiss goodbye. He was on the phone and she was eating a tomato sandwich. First he was ready to kiss and she chose that moment to take a bite of her sandwich. He waited while she chewed and swallowed. Then she moved in for the kill, his phone call suddenly became interesting and he turned away from her to chat. Rinse and repeat. For all I know they’re still there. Desperately trying to end this awkward encounter but both so full of self-help books and glossy battle-of-the-sexes comedy dramas that neither can back down without letting their gender down. And finally, I was hungry so I bought some Monster Munch. Monster Munch have never really gone away but even I had grown out of them. Apparently they’ve brought back the old monsters. They did look rather familiar. There is now a website devoted to them (obviously). Golly, Monster Munch are nice. Not the onion ones obviously because all onion crisps are vile. But the Flamin’ Hot ones are heaven in a bag. I think I’d like to win a competition to eat my own bodyweight in Monster Munch. The catch being that I’d get heavier and heavier as I ate so I wouldn’t stop eating Monster Munch until I died. What a way to go. Certainly better than starving to death while surrounded by bags full of your own waste like the post-nuclear public information film implied would happen to everyone not instantly vaporised. So the moral of the story is yay Monster Munch, boo nuclear war. I think we can all agree on that. On the way home I took a photo of what looked like a rather pleasant sun set. It ends this little series quite nicely.
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I Nothing Like I Better To Do
