There has been a rumour in Manchester this week. Initially, few dared to believe it.
It seemed too good to be true. Pints, of beer, in the Northern Quarter, for £2.
There was no way, some thought. Two hundred pence? Ten 20p pieces? It can’t be real, especially on Stevenson Square.
Fortunately, it was real. The Quarter House flung open its doors to a world of £2 lager and cider — Pravha and Aspall’s if you’re wondering — and the punters flooded in.
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On Thursday, there was a 15 minute queue to get served. On Friday, when I visited for the Manchester Evening News , it was closer to half an hour.
That was not because of an understaffed bar, though. There were five or six people working round the clock — the wait came down to demand. Build it, and they will come, as they say.
Pint in hand, I tried my best to battle the astonishment of the price of my beverage while broadcasting live from the M.E.N.’s Facebook page. Once that was over, though, I had about 15 minutes and roughly 250 millilitres to reflect.
All around me people were laughing, smoking, attempting to flirt, chastising the latest politician in the firing line, formulating their next move of the night, and drawing up grand ambitions for a weekend in a country cottage that will never happen.
It’s a scene that’s not native to Manchester. You will see it up and down the land, every night, in thousands of pubs and bars.
But it was a scene that got me thinking. Would these people — these part-time comedians, full-time lovers, and amateur philosophers who surrounded themselves with their own tribe — be here tonight if it wasn’t for the promise of a pint which is less than half of what you’d usually pay in town?
I came to the conclusion that no, they probably would not be here. But they would be somewhere.
Manchester is a city where conversations happen. Arguably, one can trace the origins of socialism, modern feminism, and the beginnings of vegetarianism in the UK to places within five miles of Northern Quarter.
And the fact that these conversations are still referenced in this city — despite taking place centuries ago — told me that the underlying forces which drew people together then still exist today. Birds of a feather flock together, as they say.
And therein lies the magic of a £2 pint: there is no magic at all. 568 millilitres of Pravha tastes the same at £2 or £6. But the people you’re with — those people you laugh, smoke, flirt, plot, and argue with — is where the magic lies.
So I’d encourage you to get yourself a £2 pint and enjoy it responsibly. But I’d also encourage you to text that mate you’ve not seen and do something with them — whether that be a walk, meeting for a coffee, going to a gig neither of you heard of before that night — and enjoy the magic. There’s something special within all of us, and this city is great at drawing it out of you.
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