Oxford Road Regeneration

The regeneration of the Oxford Road roadside architecture via construction sponsored by Americans is a modern day retelling of The Emperor’s New Clothes. Or is it? Facsimile mall fronts boast a potential future of the BBC car park, the cornerhouse and the over-street covered arcade, a third quarter perspective three dimensional building plans are juxtaposed with photographs of people laughing together. South Oxford road as a mindscape, a lived out dream for the Yuppy flying north for the winter.

“This £300m scheme will bring business into the area. There’s a mile long stretch from the universities to Whitworth park that is an underdeveloped retail zone, offering a –3% drop to the cities potential gold reserves. There’ll be gyms and a nando’s and cat themed bakeries and a Boots. All of it made of glass and steel done in the style of Joseph Paxton. But smart tech enabled. Pedestrians can choose to have their favourite music play as they walk in order to give a televisual sense of scope in their lives, remembering years as a montage accompanied by Florence And The Machine or Kitchen Jumper. Instead of the selfie they’ll be the actualfie, people will actually see other people with a hologram shone under their face, makeup made of light. Driverless cars will potter along the smart road on duvet wheels, it’s occupants talking to artificial intelligences through their glasses about gopro pro-sport statistics.” Said Alphonse Masters, lead designer on the project. He was giving a press conference in front of the cornerhouse, addressing a crowd of ten.
“This is our heritage!” someone shouted, thin body tucked deep into a waterproof jacket. He had that hair.
“The visual concept of Manchester is unimportant. London has Big Ben, New York has the Statue of Liberty, Manchester has The Stone Roses. And rain. Sometimes it might feel like the world is ending, and that’s because it is. Constantly ending and beginning, a reality shaped onion with as many layers as moments in time constantly growing into infinite. There is the potential that we can extend human lifespans far beyond our current frame of mortality. Five or ten times a lifetime today. What would one do after experiencing everything, becoming a master at every subject, to have done everything? Perhaps mutate into a piece of intelligent art positioned in the wilderness, thinking thoughts for eternity. We have several such pieces being commissioned already, conceptual art pieces in which a consciousness could exist in post-biology. The Venus De Milo could have a supercomputer fitted that predicts weather patterns. Every work in the Tate could be animated by holograms and answer questions from the visitors.” said Alphonse.
“What is the point in all this.” Somebody else called out.
“I…It’s the gateway to the knowledge capital.
Improved public community zone realms
Leisure Strategy, including 1000 new jobs.” He said, tanning in adolescent rage. A bolt of lightning zipped through the air and into his eye. On an MRI machine you would see his body turn into light. Around the corner turns a Finglands bus, the last artifact of the 20th century drives away towards Rusholme never to be seen again.

This place of opportunity

and enterprise, of love and

laughter, of culture and

community, of knowledge

and invention.

This place.

This powerful partnership.

This theatre of ambition.

The Island Of The Birds

Under the day moon I sat in Platt Fields Park, observing the island in the centre of its lake. The park came about in 1907 after the Worsley Family sold Platt Hall and its grounds. Once a thriving area of fun and slow walks, the park fell into disarray until slowly rising again to be one of the more popular green spaces in Manchester. Although I am not concerned with the history of the park or even its future. The reason I was there that day was to explore the island. The many species of water fowl that plague the toxic lake come hither and tother from the land, the actions which occur on the island are hidden from sight due to the foliage yet a great cacophony constantly squawks and honks away from sunrise to sunset. The island belongs to the birds. And like many great men before me I decided to explore their territory and if any treasures were to be found, bring them back to regular civilization. Leaving my electronic gadgets behind I stood at the waters edge and began to swim.

Signs around the lake remark that their is 'blue green algae' in the water which is poisonous to humans, causing Lou Gehrig's Disease or other brain wrongness. Inversely, blue green algae is used in health supplements sold in Holland & Barrett. I decided to ignore the warnings as there was worse in the sea and people surfed in that every day. The act of swimming itself was not tiresome, each gentle stroke from my breasts brought me closer to the mysterious land mass. Yet as I neared the birds began to circle. A tufted duck was first to come near me as I gently swam.
"Hello duck." I said, spitting out lake water. It tried to peck my eye, so I instead took it's bill in my mouth and bit it clean off. Another bird gently swam over to me, a Canadian Goose.
"Hello goose." I said. This one began to peck me all around the head and so I reached out of the water and snapped its neck. I was nearing the shore of the island now and thought I was clear from any more attacks until a Cormorant flew in and landed in front of me.
"Hello cormorant." I said, raising a foot from the silt in case I needed to kick it. But the Cormorant looked at me with one eye, turned its head and looked at me with it's other, and then vomited up what appeared to be a curry before flying away. I knelt by the strange evacuation, dipped my fingers into it and brought it up to my nose. Chicken Korma. I spat in dismay, for I had been damaged by a bird on a more emotional level than any physical violence could. Yet now was not the time to get in a tizzy, for there was an island to explore. And all around me were the shrieking of the birds.

The earth around me was covered in bird shit, miniature footprints and feathers. It smelt of dust. The island rose in a gentle slope to its low peninsula, I watched the ducks and geese waddle away from me. My clothes were coloured in algae and dirt, the blood from my goose wound ran down my face. I began to scramble over the ground, the terrain had been made by the birds and so their small paths did not fit my lumbering form. The shells of eggs crunched underfoot as did the hollow bones of long dead avians. Within five minutes I had pretty much explored every square metre of the island and had so far found nothing remarkable, besides glimpsing what the world would look like if completely overrun by birds. I could hear the sirens at the park gates, a crowd was beginning to gather by the waters edge, shouting every time they spotted me in the undergrowth. I didn't have much time. Batting away an ill-tempered swan I forced myself towards the centre of the island. Maybe there would be some kind of monument, some kind of reason for all of this. An end to justify the means. Yet all there was was a particularly fat goose that looked at me with those reptilian eyes, the same eyes as every other bird that betrays its evolutionary heritage.
"Why am I here goose! Why!" I shouted. I didn't expect a reply and just sat by it, beginning to cry at the hopelessness of the situation. I felt a scaly webbed foot on my hand and looked up. The goose was staring right at me. Maybe trying to convey some message. I think I understood and so nodded, taking firm hold of both the goose's feet. It spread out its wings and began to flap. Flap, flap, flap. Over and over. And slowly but surely we were beginning to fly! I dangled on the little orange feet and watched Platt Fields Park below me as both of us flew away, laughing together as if we were infants. When it dropped me off at home I caught it with a net and ate it for supper, for it was the biggest goose I had ever seen. I had tried to answer the mysteries of the island yet found that there was no mystery. Perhaps it would be better in future to pose questions than answer them.