As a father and a Mancunian - this attack on our children feels personal
Manchester is the place I spent my formative years but, as we say Up North, is ‘not quite itself’ today. The shops are open, there are cars on the street, the trams are still running as the sun tries to break through. There is a certain determination along every road and around every corner but it is a different city to the one it was yesterday. The self-confidence in the city’s DNA, so usually to the fore, is playing second fiddle to an instinctive reaction to pull together - to offer free taxi rides, to give blood.
In a way, we’ve been here before. In 1996 the IRA planted the largest bomb to explode in peace-time Britain on Corporation Street and the 3,300 pounds of Semtex and ammonium nitrate fertilizer woke me up two miles away in Rusholme. On that occasion there was a warning, no fatalities and the city used the devastation as an impetus to rebuild itself. But this is different. There have been fatalities - children - and as both a father and a Mancunian, this time it feels much more personal.
From the moment a text alert informed me that a ‘large bang’ had been heard at the Arena my phone started to ring and the texts didn’t stop coming from then on. As the news got worse, it quickly became apparent that this was very close. Even Mancunians, like myself, who have moved away feel a preternatural proximity to their city regardless of geography. In my mind, I’ve never really left, but being back home yesterday visiting family and friends, these terrible events cut very deep indeed.
Manchester takes its music and entertainment seriously and the 21,000 capacity Arena is the second biggest such venue in Europe. Even if a Mancunian hasn’t actually been to the venue, they will know somebody who has either attended or patiently waited to pick up a son or daughter and their friends while ‘the passengers’ appeal for another encore inside.
I have been to the Arena countless times. I remember pleading with my parents to be allowed to go to my first gig at the Manchester Apollo, there since 1938 and still going strong. I was only finally allowed to go after a pick-up had been arranged and confirmed, but it was underage drinking, the exposure to recreational drugs and the mean streets of Ardwick that were the pressing concerns of the mid 80s. It’s only now I realise what my parents must have been feeling when I walked out of the door.
My niece was at the Arena 24 hours previously to see Brian Cox and friends had family members at the Grande show, all of whom, thankfully, escaped without physical injury but who may later count the cost in other ways. Heart-breakingly, and at the time of writing, the daughter of a friend of a friend is still missing - her mother hopes for the best but fears the worst. I can’t imagine the anguish that she is going through right now.
Those waiting at home for the safe delivery of their offspring on Monday night would soon be trying to call them. Even at a gig catering for the Instagram crowd - Grande has over 100 million followers on the social media platform - the signal at the Arena can be patchy as thousands will have routinely tried to record their experience. Adding to the anxiety of parents, calls and texts would have rung out and most likely have gone unanswered.
My boy is nine years old, a few years away from his first gig, but how will I feel when he asks to go? Will I remember the events of May 22nd 2017? Yes, obviously. We all will. But will I wait and pick him up or deny him the experience? I’ll be there to pick him up. You can put your house on it. I’ll probably take him to the Manchester Arena.
