The Droylsden Dolls

So it's about 1 in the morning, on a Tuesday (well, it's technically a Wednesday, but who cares?) outing, and I'm in a local bar...singing Wonderwall by Oasis with another Australian and three Spanish girls. And I'm sober.

Those of you who know me probably would not think this is something I would ever do. But I did it. And in a weird way, really enjoyed it.

See, the thing I'm learning while living in another country is that just the simple act of being there is something you've never done before, so why waste the experience sitting in your room (I do that a lot, but that's the constant tug of warmth, homesickness and Facebook)? And what kind of stories will I have to compete with my Irish workmate's stories if I never do anything crazy? And more importantly, I'll probably never see any of these people in the bar again. I can't see myself living in Manchester permanently, as cool as it is. Especially as Morrissey lives in LA now.

My night started fairly normal. A lecture on art cinema that was interesting in that it made me, firstly; angry because art cinema assumes that the spectator is passive in the experience of viewing narrative cinema. Wrong on so many levels, but who has the time to argue that here? Secondly; the urge to laugh, because almost all of it reminded me of Spaced ("abstract expressionism is so mid to late 80s"), Ghostworld ("Nearer, Father, Nearer") and The Mighty Boosh (Jurgen Habermaster) and thirdly; it made me think that I want to make fun of art cinema, not make it. But still I find it fascinating.

I assumed I was going with my new Australian friends for a drink after this. Um, no. One of the girls' cousins was in a play on Canal Street, which is a fashionably gay street in the city (it's pretty cool. And canal-adjacent. Yep). Somehow, the cousin had told her this club was in Canal Street, Droylsden. Droylsden.

Droylsden has many interesting features. One, it's past the Manchester City stadium (good to know - massive, by the way). Two, it's deep in suburbia. Three, it looks to me a little like Cardiff or Blackbutt or New Lambton. Four, I couldn't get the Coronation Street theme out of my head the whole time I was there.

After a seemingly very long bus ride, and one that was confusing because none of us have any idea where we're going (being Australian, German and Spanish. A mean townie's dream - they could have told us anything), we ask a local grocer. They tell us we have to keep walking. We see no cafe anywhere. We see no Canal Street. We walk around and pass a canal, and ask a group of kids (out pretty late, I must say) where it is. Canal Street isn't even a full street. At some point, a Podiatry Clinic divides the rest of the street into Craven Road.

It soon dawns on us that we should have listened to the three people who told us Canal Street was back in the city and get the bus back. Not only have we missed the play, but we realise we could have walked there in no time.

Feeling defeated, we make plans to go back out to the bar down the road. Of course it's karaoke night. I will not sing. I will watch others sing. This is what I tell myself. The place is packed. There are huge screens projecting the words so the whole bar is essentially participating in karaoke. Someone sings Plug-In Baby and we sing our hearts out. Another sings a song from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Another sings...Hallelujah. Some guy singing Billy Joel. Oh! And a guy who sings I'm Not Crying, by Flight of the Conchords. He is my new hero.

At some point, one of the girls decide that we're going to sing. All of us. I relent. Well, I surrender the way people subjected to Chinese Water Torture finally relent. We sign up and it takes ages. We're all sober by this point, and tired. But then it's our turn. Five of us are singing, there are two microphones between us, and my countryman feels the music to the point where he's in his own private Australian Idol audition, leaving the rest of us to share one microphone. Which I find hilarious.

It is always a good idea to sing a song in a bar in Manchester that people can sing along to. Which is why we chose Wonderwall. It's Noel and Liam fookin Gallagher, int it? I think it's pretty safe to assume that no one could hear us, busy as they were singing their hearts out as well.

The whole experience was so much fun. Even being lost in Droylsden was fun because as I said, these are the kinds of things you'll remember when you go home. Droylsden at night is pretty exciting. Well, I say exciting...

I've officially been here two weeks and so far the urge to come home is still really strong. But at the same time I'm getting to know my flatmates, who are all really nice and more than likely experiencing the same feelings, and I'm meeting people I never would if I'd stayed at home. And I get to make films in a new place, in a course that, just quietly, already seems way better than at home.

As Lemony Snicket says, "One's home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening - the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life - and can never find again." I could really go for some pie right now, but I'll still eat chips.