A Beautiful View, A Misjudged Menu

Gird Your Metaphorical Loins, Gentle Reader
For tonight we travel in both time and space, courtesy of your humble scribe, who will - what's that?  No! Not the TARDIS, Conrad.  Me.  I shall - oh let's just get on with it, eh?
     Conrad's posting schedule last Saturday was a little discombobulated, as he had been invited to go on Pete's stag do, which involved meeting in Manchester at 17:00, thus allowing only one post that day.
     Needless to say, your humble scribe does not often get invited to go out on social events, and I suspect Pete was a bit desperate in resorting to me.  Be that as it may, I went, and hopefully our madcap adventures will divert you for a moment or two*.
     First problem was locating the meeting venue - "Red's True Barbecue", which was not where I fondly imagined it to be.

The corner of Whitworth Street and Princess Parkway

     Fortunately Pete had the foresight on Friday afternoon to obtain your humble scribe's mobile phone number.  Er - that is, Anna provided him with same, as <mild blush> your modest artisan has absolutely no idea what his Portable Devil Box number is.  So I plaintively rang Pete and confessed I was slightly adrift**.  He guided me to target.

A grim vista

     Lovely Manchester weather!
     Pete and party turned up mere minutes later, and then our second hurdle of the evening transpired.  Pete had not been able to book a table in advance, so we'd agreed to turn up early and hopefully not have to wait more than, ooh, thirty minutes for a table.
     "It might take two or three hours," mournfully informed our blond waitress.
     Damnit!  Conrad had left that money-off voucher for Burgerking at home -
     We consolidated in back, drowning our sorrows with alcohol.  I met the rest of our party - Russell (Pete's partner-in-crime from work), Mick, John, Simon, Robbo and Craig.
     

Pete, Simon (his elder brother), Robbo and Craig
(You are lucky to get this shot, as Pete detests having his photo taken)

     No shots of Russell as you've probably already seen him, and Mick and John vanished after the meal.
     Speaking of which -
     "I can fit you in at two tables of four," informed our waitress five minutes after we began darkly considering where to eat.  We would have fallen upon her and praised her and her ancestors to the heavens were there not such things as sexual harrassment suits.
     Craig, Simon, Robbo and I were at one table and we all agreed to share a couple of "Feasts" which were £19 and £35 respectively.  You got plenty of bang for your buck.

Before!

     Now, you can't deny there's a lot there.  Fries and ribs and chicken and sausages and cornbread and coleslaw and onion rings and a "Bucket of Bones" and sweet potato fries.  We did them justice.

Very much After!

     Conrad had to explain about "cornbread" a couple of times, as he's baked it before.  It's made from cornmeal not wheat, and has a general rather sweet and cakey texture - oh, can we have the bill please - and this version is rather looser and crumblier than the version I -
     - WHAT  £130! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN!?
     The waiter gently pointed out, with a menu, that the "Bucket of Bones" had a minimum order of four persons and cost £19 EACH.
     Oh what the heck, it's only money.  We paid up, and left.  Although not before Conrad, because the balance of his mind was disturbed, tipped our waitress £5 for hustling the tables for us.

Next:  Belle Vue Stadium

Where they race greyhounds.  That's where "A Beautiful View" comes from.  What, did you think it referred to us or a wet Manchester city centre?  Art?

     I would take to task whoever came up with the name for this racetrack, as the view from the terraces could scarcely be called beautiful.  Art?

Perhaps better in sunlight?

     Altogether a novel experience for your humble scribe, as I have never been to a racetrack of any sort.  Nor, frankly, do I participate in gambling.  Not, I hasten to assure you, out of any particular moral scruples.  No.  I just like to have something to show for spending my money***.
     The format was that a race was run every twenty minutes or so, before which we the punters could place a bet.  Lest you confuse greyhound racing with Ascot or Epsom, the minimum bet placed at Belle Vue is £2.  The dogs then raced madly round the track -

Atmospheric shot of muddy track in the rain

     And one of them won.
     I realise this concept of "racing" and "win" may not go down well in these PC times, so let me distract you with a trackside shot of an artificial hurdle -

Slightly obscured by fencing

     Let me also regale you with a shot of the programme -

Note runner number 2!

     Never mind all the nonsense about statistics and numbers and performance and whether a particular animal had voided it's bladder or bowels before a race - this was a genuine criteria for the others present - Conrad chose "Crinkilly Sally" because Darling Daughter is called "Sally".
     And it won.
     Yes!  £7.50 return on a £2 "stake" - stop me if I get too technical.  Not only that, I was the only one who won all night.

We then got a taxi back into Gomorrah Manchester, courtesy of an hilarious taxi driver with a fine line in dismissive banter, at which your talented typist abandoned ship in order to catch the last bus home.  Getting on, you know, these old bones. Which are up a bit of betting money and down a whole lot of dining dollars.

Now you know.  Chin chin!

Ooops.  Have to add another 8 words at least to boost this to 1,000 words.

There!  Done.

* No complaints if they don't. This is all free.
** "Completely lost" - translation courtesy Mister Hand.
*** Like a huge restaurant bill! - added Mister Hand