My slumbering bliss didn’t last long as I was barged awake by a herd of wildebeest stampeding past me. Alarm bells went off in sandman land, something was wrong.

People streamed past my seat, running in the direction of the exits. A few seats in front of us a woman blocked the aisle, making room for her man to escape first. Nice to see equality now also applies in a survival situation.

What the hell was going on?

What was going on was the seat belt sign had just gone off and the masses, who’d downed far too many pints whilst waiting for their flight, were dangerously close to bladder explosion point. It was a no-holds barred race for the loos. Survival of the fittest and those with the strongest bladders.

Welcome to the Ryanair flight from Manchester to Tenerife.

We were in row 27. There was a decent distance between us and the toilets which, by five minutes after the seat belt lights had signalled the start of the dribble dash, were evil places I didn’t want to venture into, even with a four hour plus flight ahead. The queue of squirming passengers stretched back as far as our seats, resulting in regular elbows to the bonce followed by an ‘oops, sorry mate’.

Does politeness dilute acts of unthinking stupidity I wonder?

As I ducked and dived to avoid what would be definite red card offences on a football field, I heard the ubiquitous budget airline moan ring out behind me from the patriarch of a family that included three toddlers. The family were distributed in various corners of the aircraft.

“We hoped we’d get seats together, but they seated us apart. It’s a disgrace, typical Ryanair.”

I wanted to turn around and point out there was this little facility where you could actually book seats together. Useful when there’s a lot of you and you really want to sit together. But hey, they were a family, money was no doubt short and they’d probably used all the savings they’ve got for a week’s AI in the sunshine. It would have been a no win strategy to go public with this view.
The man grabbed a passing steward and asked if he could sort them out. ‘Sort them out’ meant ‘shift others so we can all sit together’.

I have a response ready if a Ryanair member of staff asks me to shift. I’ll take them quietly aside and point out it is Ryanair’s seating policy which has led to the problem, not mine. So no, I won’t be inconveniencing myself so the company can line its pockets with more dosh.

Just as the toilet stampede calmed down, the woman in front of me had a heart attack. I knew it was serious from the shocked reactions of the passengers in the seats next to her, including her ashen-faced husband. Within seconds all the cabin crew were buzzing around her.
I’m ashamed to admit my firsts thoughts were ‘bugger, we’re going to be diverted.‘ I am a terrible person.

It turned out it wasn’t a heart attack, it was a panic attack. No doubt caused by waking up, like me, to see people streaming towards the exits.

The poor woman’s inability to catch her breath evolved into projectile vomiting. The air crew threw paper bags at her like fire-fighters desperately trying stop a blaze.

A man in the row in front asked the vomiting woman’s husband if she was scared of flying. At first I thought he was showing concern. But by the way he visibly backed off a few inches when the husband replied “no, she’s usually fine. I don’t know what’s caused this” I knew he was more worried about the possibility of the winter vomiting bug being passed on like a baton and ruining his holiday before he, in turn, ruined everyone else’s at the hotel he was staying.

To add to the melee, a 23 strong mixed group of middle-aged revellers heading to Tenerife to celebrate a fiftieth birthday, and oblivious of the mini crisis, were in full-on party mode belting out the naffest songs they could withdraw from the memory bank of their formative years.
As they launched into I Just Called to Say I Love You for the umpteenth time, one of the hostesses shushed them.
“Quieten down, there’s a sick passenger here,” she hissed.
Maybe she thought the singing would make the vomiting woman feel worse. Given their choice of songs, she had a valid point.

I looked at my watch. Four hours more till we landed. Four more hours of being constantly bumped by people with wide loads and weak bladders.

The woman vomited the whole journey, the ageing revellers sang bad songs the whole journey. Thankfully most people kept their heads down and read as the crew pushed trolleys of booze,  paninis and overpriced perfume up and down the aisles whilst dealing with each mini crisis with a smile and calm sincerity.

The Ryanair plane had taken off on time and it landed on time.

I don’t know why people complain about Ryanair so much. You know what you’re getting and they generally transport you to where you want to go on time, in relative comfort and quite cheaply.

I don’t mind travelling with Ryanair.

When it comes to some of their passengers on the other hand…

Jack is co-editor, writer and photographer for BuzzTrips and the Real Tenerife series of travel websites as well as a contributor to online travel sites and travel magazines. Follow Jack on Google+

It’s midnight and it’s a cool, wet Manchester night. A girl in a skin tight, white mini dress follows us as we search for the City Warehouse Apartment Hotel in Manchester’s Northern Quarter. She teeters precariously on killer heels that have clearly become more difficult to walk in after a few drinks.

We scan the deserted street for a hotel type entrance as she passes us and presses a buzzer on an anonymous door. A smart dressed bloke in black opens the door and she enters. He looks at us and smiles.

“Are you my late check-in?”

He ushers us in and directs us to the lift. “There’s a Beyonce concert in Manchester tonight and there will probably be a post show party going on so I’ve stuck you on the top floor.”

With that he leaves us to find our room, wondering whether we’re going to get any sleep. As we open the door to our room/apartment, any concerns are swept away by a ‘well I didn’t expect that’ wave of chic, sleek and super sexy, urban interior design that might just be about the coolest apartment we’ve ever stayed in.

It’s after midnight, most places are shut except a Spar about 10 minutes walk away. The view of the night city outside a wall of floor to ceiling windows is irresistibly seductive. The smoked glass table beside the window looks like it wants our company.

“I guess I’m popping back out for a bottle of wine then,” I say to Andy before turning on my heel and heading back to the city’s streets on a late night quest. Although we’ve got an early train to catch, the apartment is far too nice for just sleeping in.

Buzz Trips View
It’s smack bang in Manchester’s creative Northern Quarter (jazzy sounds from inviting bars accompany you as you find your way there after dark), five minutes from Piccadilly Gardens and about a 15 minute walk to Piccadilly Train Station. All of these make it a great city centre option.

But City Warehouse Apartment Hotel’s big attraction is that the apartments are gorgeous. They are so good that I felt I could quite easily live there, enjoying the vibrancy of one of Britain’s great northern cities from a suitably stylish urban pad.

Apartments

Bedrooms have a tastefully minimalist design with very comfortable beds. Our apartment had two bedrooms, one en suite, and a handy second bathroom.
A large, open living area includes a smart, fully equipped kitchen which would be ideal for dinner parties (not a crazy notion as there might be a temptation not to go out). A smoked glass dining table seats six people and has views out over the city, whilst two long leather sofas set either side of a huge flat screen TV seem perfect for reclining with something long and cool. What that something long and cool consists off depends on your individual situation I suppose. The rooms also have fast wifi so no problem with posting pictures on facebook or Instagram to show your friends how über cool you are.

One of my favourite touches was a small balcony with just enough space for a bleary eyed couple to nurse a warming morning coffee whilst watching the creative part of the city come to life below.

Since staying there we’ve praised it to the high heavens to friends who live in the north west of England. Anyone looking for a base to enjoy a night or two in Manchester would be certifiable if they went anywhere else.

Prices at the City Warehouse Apartment Hotel start from around £55 which is exactly what we paid. It is simply unbelievable value, especially if there are four of you.

Jack is co-owner, writer and photographer for BuzzTrips and the Real Tenerife series of travel websites as well as a contributor to lots of other places. Follow Jack on Google+

“Now it’s your turn to take over the controls.”

There’s one thing screaming about the skies in the virtual safety of a Playstation game, it’s another thing completely when you’re in the domain of the birds clutching at the joystick of an old bi-plane.

As birthday presents go, it had been inspirational. My sister had arranged one of those adventure packages. This one was to fly a Tiger Moth.

The idea of taking to the skies in something made out of wood and wires seemed a potential way to bring my bucket list to a premature and grisly end. As a result I waited almost the full 12 month period on the voucher before plucking up the courage. With time running out I eventually took the plunge and booked the flying lesson.

Preparation
The instructor did his best to make me feel at ease by jokingly that the Tiger Moth was simple to fly as it only had a few controls. As he put it: “There are more instruments in a three piece band.”

That didn’t help. I like instruments and controls and banks of flashing buttons, especially when one of them is labelled ‘ejector seat’.

His second attempt at a nerve-soother was no better.

“This is a really lucky plane,” he cheerily pointed out. “It’s been shot out of the skies or crashed at least three times… and it’s still flying.”

I don’t consider a plane with a record of plummeting to earth particularly blessed with good luck.

My state of mind improved when he handed me a leather jacket and a helmet. I probably looked more Snoopy than Tom Cruise but in my head I was Top Gun.

It was time to get airborne.

Flying a Tiger Moth Plane
Nervous as hell but feeling pretty cool in my flying jacket, I squeezed into the front seat cockpit on an airplane which pre-dated the First World War. The real pilot sitting behind me had that typical pilot’s voice; the sort that you imagine would never get flustered even when the engines fail, the joy stick snaps off in his hand and a distracted pigeon flies straight into the goggles.

Take off wasn’t quite the same as taxiing in a passenger jet to somewhere hot and exotic. The little plane bumped along the ground, bouncing on every divot, with what seemed the acceleration capabilities of a moped.

We hadn’t even reached a speed where I’d have shifted to third gear in my car when the pilot pulled back on the joystick and, by some miracle, the plane actually took to the air.

We’d barely cleared the airfield’s blades of grass when the pilot suggested I take over the controls.

The instructor really hadn’t been joking about the instruments. There was the joystick (more of a metal rod) which was attached to the rudder and the plane flaps by wires that looked as though they once been metal coat hangers. Then there was the speedometer and the fuel gauge. That was it.

Flying the machine was ridiculously simple. You want to go left; you push the joystick to the left. You want to climb; you pull it back and so on. You could throw the joystick around and the Tiger Moth would react in a lovely, calming, leisurely manner as if it had sneaked a spliff beforehand and was in no mood to be rushed. Playstation controls for flying a plane are way, way more sensitive and difficult.

To keep flying straight you line up the point where the wires which connect the wings make an X (conveniently located directly in front of the pilot’s seat) with the horizon. That’s the Tiger Moth’s version of the artificial horizon instrument. It made me wonder how they ever flew at night but, as I was concentrating on not sending us into a tail spin, I didn’t ask.

The Tiger Moth had a top speed of about 80mph (I’d driven faster on the way to the airfield) which to me seemed far too slow to keep something this size in the air. But it actually turned out to be a major plus.

The slow speed made it feel as though I was gliding above the green and pleasant land like a bird rather than in a flying machine. As I relaxed into having control of the plane and banked in long, lazy circles, I took my eyes from the wiry X to watch farmers and their livestock in the fields below.

For a short magical time I was transported to another era; I was Denys Finch Hatton in Out of Africa… even if the location was really more out of Manchester.

You could say the time flew past before the pilot took over the controls again to bring the little plane gently down on to the soft grass.

By that time we taxied to a stop I couldn’t imagine how I could ever have been worried about flying in such a lovely old plane.

A voucher to fly a Tiger Moth at Barton Airfield (City Airport) costs from £155 and is valid for 12 months (although the flying period is April to October).

Jack is co-owner, writer and photographer for BuzzTrips and the Real Tenerife series of travel websites plus lots of other things. Follow Jack on Google+

Grimy, wet Manchester; the heartlands of industrial England where the Spinning Jenny changed the world, the computer was invented and where that pesky atom was split for the first time.

There is a defiant attitude in its rock solid foundations and I adore every inch of its gritty side streets and soaring scrapers.

The Soup Kitchen

Pavement café society Manchester style – loading bays and lunch. The canteen of the creative in the Northern Quarter provides a hint about what Manchester is all about. Sophistication in Doc Martens.

The Dance Hall

Piccadilly Train Station car park by day, an industrial rave venue at night (now and again).

The Graffiti

Art, humour, fashion and attitude rolled into one by Factory 311.

The Money

It’s a bona-fide pawnbroker in a modern city in 2011 – conveniently placed right outside Affleck’s Palace so you can pawn and buy.

The Multi-Culture

Deansgate – home to bars, restaurants, clubs and the centre of Manchester’s Spanish world, the Insituto Cervantes where, incidentally, I studied Spanish at night school for a year.

The Future

Beetham Tower – nearly 169 metres high and looking like a Playstation 2 standing on its side. Beetham Tower on Deansgate was designed by Ian Simpson who also designed the city’s Urbis Centre and who lives in the penthouse high in the sky. My nephew insists Wayne Rooney lives one floor below.

In 1996 the IRA set off a bomb in the centre of Manchester. The objective was destruction…but the city’s response was one of defiance and ultimately, Phoenix-like resurrection.
Whatever the politicians say, at a grass roots level many people in Manchester believe that the bomb was good for the city.

As I stand looking at the glass wonderland of the Urbis Exhibition Centre, the Manchester Wheel and the Printworks I remember the first time I set foot in Manchester, arriving at Victoria Station to negotiate moody streets that were dark, ominously quiet and positively seedy.

The bomb changed all that. This part of the city centre was reborn; a triumph of Manchester spirit over adversity. The Urbis has been around for quite a few years now, but this area of Corporation Street still feels on the shiny and new side. I loved the way Manchester was transformed into a thriving modern European city that was fun to spend time in. But in some ways parts now feel as though they have become an anonymous anywhereland. It’s probably because the names trying to catch my attention from shops, bars and restaurants could be in any city in Britain. Hard Rock Café and Nando’s just don’t do it for me. The products of Madmen types, they’re for those who like (or need) labels.

The bland uniformity of the shops around me are claustrophobic. I need somewhere that has earthy character oozing with originality…I need to be in the Northern Quarter.

Manchester’s Northern Quarter
As long as I’ve known Manchester, the Northern Quarter was home to an eclectic mix of fashion designers, quirky shops and great bars – Band in the Wall was a particular favourite and I spent many a memorable night (in a blurred sort of way) there listening to some cracking bands.
Situated between Picadilly and Ancoats, its reputation as being the creative heart of Manchester has, if anything, grown. It is the place to go for individuals who want to break free from the herd, something that becomes obvious from the moment you enter its network of gritty, industrialised streets bordered predominantly by red brick buildings.

To get there, I shoot through the Arndale shopping centre to emerge opposite a row of grubby kiosks. There’s nothing slick or fancy about them and they feel real. Ahead is the antidote to soulless High Street shopping; Afflecks Palace

Shopping in the Northern Quarter – Afflecks Palace
The haunt and hunting zone of freaks, punks, neo-hippies, Goths and everybody else who is turned off by mass produced ‘designer’ wear, Afflecks Palace is a shopping centre for people who don’t normally enjoy shopping. It’s almost as much a bizarre urban theme park as it is a shopping experience. There are Pagan shops, fetishist shops, military gear, tattooists, theatrical wear, punk, retro, American Graffiti styles, Japanese kitsch, rubber dresses and vampire clothing – all are staffed by people wearing the clothes they sell which makes for some interesting sights.

There are a zillion things here that I want to buy; things I didn’t realise I desperately needed like German paratroopers’ boots or a Dalek’s head (seriously). I’m overwhelmed with the overdose of originality and seek out a coffee shop to acclimatise.

It’s as quirky as the rest of Afflecks and the owner possesses that particular brand of Manc humour which can come across as downright rude to the uninitiated (or maybe he actually was rude). He hums and haws at my Scottish £20 note (something I discover that still winds me up) but the coffee’s good and the setting suitably Bohemian – even the cola is original.

The shops in the streets outside Afflecks aren’t quite as outrageous, but they’re still unique; from fancy hat shops and outlets displaying real designer wear from the best of Manchester’s young new talent to time-travelling places selling rockers clothing.

However, exploration is cut short by the fact that it’s raining – did I mention this was Manchester – and I decide it’s time to see what the pub scene has to offer. There are a number of tempting places; I’m guessing the Soup Kitchen isn’t a real soup kitchen, but I’m looking specifically for a chunk of the traditional Manchester pub scene. By pure luck I strike gold.

Bars in Manchester – The Castle Hotel
From the outside it looks like the sort of place that’s home to four old guys in flat caps talking about pigeons. But if a re-visit to the Northern Quarter has taught me anything it’s that looks can be deceiving. The Castle Hotel looks like a traditional old bar, both outside and within it’s dimly lit interior – but it’s a drinking haunt of artists, musicians, Northern Quarter residents and students. A poster on the wall outlining recent events tells me all I need to know – Northern Quarter Book Club; Preston is my Paris Launch and the intriguing sounding Dr Butler’s Cowboy Extravaganza – I immediately want to sign up for a Bad Language Writers Collective. I order a pint of scrumpy and a chunky egg butty and ask the barmaid if I can photograph her pumps. Instead of slapping me she smiles and says ‘luckily, I’ve just buffed them up for you,’ What can you say to that?

An explore of the place reveals a wonderfully atmospheric, rejuvenated Victorian bar. A back room with a small stage is clearly the performance area. The bar’s open air terrace makes me smile, it’s a tiny courtyard enclosed by towering red brick walls; it is the consummate urban terrace – it is so Manchester.

I know I should continue exploring but it’s still drizzling outside and the scrumpy was extremely quaffable… plus the barmaid’s pumps really are impressively dazzling. I order another scrumpy and sit back down in a shaft of light by the window. I was in the Manchester I was looking for, so why not take the time to enjoy it for just a little bit longer?

Jack is co-owner, writer and photographer for BuzzTrips and the Real Tenerife series of travel websites as well as a contributor to lots of other places. Follow Jack on Google+