The Piccadilly Hotel in Manchester is an anonymous modern structure slipped neatly inside a multi-storey car park -- an injection of glass and concrete at the core of a wraparound helter shelter. The ethos behind such a building is entirely American, the accent on efficiency and impersonality.
A desk clerk surveys the lobby with a glazed smile. "You're welcome," he parrots awkwardly at every satisfied customer. "You're welcome." The expression grates absurdly. I look carefully at the man's nose, it doesn't appear to be growing.
Around the bar we have some stars tonight, local boys. The hotel is host to a ceremonial dinner and testimonial booze-up in honour of footballer Joe Corringan. There's much hearty banner and slapping of manly shoulders as the famous players mingle with their tight knit mafia of show biz personalities and a selection of thick set men in penguin costumes who resemble off-duty policemen. As snippets of conversation drift nearer, it becomes apparent that they are policemen.
A very large gentleman wheezes towards the bar. He identifies himself loudly as Bernard Manning, all purpose TV comedian and personage. Mr. Manning, fresh from the cover of the morning tabloids where his imminent death was gleefully forecast, gathers his cronies around him and guffaws.
"Aye oop lads," he addresses the bar in general. "Aye oop, bloody press bots have got me bloody dead! Lose seven stone? Seven pounds more like." The Bar erupts sycophantically. Mr. Manning's diet is obviously in abeyance. He's a card.
Across the lobby another party of informally dressed young men amble out the door and get into a large coach. They aren't footballers though. One of them is very blonde, good looking in an angular, undernourished away -- pretty, you might say. The football mafia stare at the intruders and muffled comments pass between them; personal comments and sexual allusions. Fat pink faces distort into a dreadful hallucination and their gaze turns to photographer Anton Corbijn's metal suitcase. Perhaps he's from the Daily Mirror, perhaps we're snooping on their private 'do'. Anton, who is Dutch, doesn't have the faintest idea of what's going on.
He's lucky.