7. The Brothers Jib

noun

singular proper noun: Jib

1. A little known alleyway or pathway that connects two existing routes. Limited commonality as it is only known and shared by a few. To move in the most efficient manner through a busy city.

            e.g. Let’s take the Jib behind Waterstones

verb

Verb: To jib, 

e.g. “Hang fire I’m jibbing all the way”

Origin

Late 1980’s The Bradshaw Brothers

 

 

 

The bus heaved itself around the corner of Portland Street on its way to Piccadilly bus station in the cold late morning of Christmas Eve 1988. It was laden with an elite squadron of lost souls primed to attack their town armed with the last paycheck before the big day. There was only one mission, to find something, buy it,  wrap it and stick it under the tree at home then allow some spurious bastard called Santa Claws to take all the credit.

Looking through the poorly scribbled happy faces on an upstairs window of the bus sat brothers Haydn and Marcus. This was their usual seat above the driver’s head as to quote one of the brothers “it feels like we’re driving”. The two turned to each other to check in on themselves. Haydn was looking decidedly groggy from last night’s session, but even on his worst day he was still in charge.

“Right” he said let's synchronise watches.

“I have eleven thirty”

“Check, check” said Marcus as he lifted his watch to look at it, mirroring his big brother

“Good. This is how it’s going down. Burger King hole in the wall,  then round the back of Lewis’ as it is madness to slipstream down Market Street today”

“Fucking madness” agreed Marcus

Market Street was the arterial retail highway. Off  Market street were the delights of the underground market, Beatie’s Model shop, and Toy and Hobby. On the other side squatted the Arndale Centre, Manchester’s shame. A dirty cream tiled toilet block full of crap shops. (apart from maybe the Body Shop as the brothers were a friend of the Ice Blue shampoo you could get there). Market Street could not just be wandered down willy-nilly. You had to have a strategy, an entry point and an exit point. 

“Slipstreaming'' involved choosing a shopper that both brothers identified as moving at the correct velocity then ducking in behind them without being noticed. The chosen shopper would then act as a battering ram clearing a path through the great unwashed and hopefully deliver them both past punks drinking cider at the end of the route. Any deviation across or diagonal was suicidal.

“Haydie I think we need to get off”

People were standing and packing themselves on the stairs like in a giant Pez dispenser.

“Chill little brother it will take pure time to unload this lot and we haven’t discussed the back up. Then we Jib down King street and sweep under the Royal Exchange pick up some fags and straight down to the Dalton Street Cafe. Post vittles we can split, but if we get separated meet at the usual at 2pm”

The usual was the rear stair of the Royal Exchange Theatre. Inside the Old Trading Hall stands the structure of the theatre looking like a giant Apollo 11 landing craft. The hall still advertise the prices from the stock market on the day trading finished. Marcus and Haydn thought that was fucking cool, but it also housed the cleanest bog in Manchester.

If you were lucky, a busker called “Little Big Band ''might be playing on the steps. What Haydn hadn't mentioned  was the fact that there was a fail safe and that was the same spot one hour later so basically you could camp out in their excellent café, look at cool black and white photos of actors and use the facilities to your heart’s content.

“Is all that clear?”

“Crystal Maze clear”

“ excellent. It appears to be our time to depart this vail of chip fat and digestive biscuits" he looked at Marcus square between the eyes "Marine, we are leaving".

They stood and joined the last of the bus's inhabitants as they evacuated the warm fetid environment of the top deck to bravely venture into the harsh reality of a bitingly cold Manchester day.

“Bleeding ‘ell” Haydn shouted as he was the first to disembark and feel the cold. The icy wind bit down hard in to his face as he surveyed the madness of Piccadilly Gardens.

People were streaming in all directions. Running for buses or from buses. People were dragging kids behind them or shouting at them or both. It was a scene of devastation and chaos reminiscent of a busy day in Mos Eisley. Some of the lucky ones had already finished shopping and were tucked away in the shelters awaiting their dropship out of there or the number 42 Bus, whichever came first.

“Right kid we’re in the pipe five by five, there’s Burger King, move, move ,move”

The red and yellow lights of Burger King fractured in the cold but marked the start of the Jib and the first cash point.

“Stay close kid we are heading for the hole in the wall”

The two brothers moved like salmon upstream, bending themselves in to unfeasible shapes to squeeze through half gaps left by busy shoppers. There was the occasional “sorry” on both their parts as they reached the hole in the wall unscathed. 

Haydn inserted his card.

“Start spreading holy water I think we're are going to need it”

He tapped in his number. 

“Shit the bed”

“Bad?”

“Brassic”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have bought the remote control cars” Marcus suggested

“We wanted them”

“Maybe not two of them”

“How are you supposed to race with one car?”

“Time trials?”

“No one likes a smartass” 

Haydn’s payday was usually marked with one big purchase, usually based on starting a brand new hobby as yet untested, then ordering the biggest pizza that Peter D’s could make. The two would “live like kings” for one night then try to scrape together whatever they could scrounge for the rest of the month. This would involve a very cheap sherry, bread in beans, very late nights combined with early morning trips to the tennis courts before the Park Keeper started work so they didn’t have to pay. After all Haydn insisted a man must take exercise, “We are not muck savages”. They also found that the tramlines of a concrete tennis court make an excellent race track when you get bored with hitting a tennis ball at each other.

Haydn tapped some more and money appeared.

“We won,” Haydn said and tucked the money away. 

“How much do we get?”

“Money and fair words, right collars up heads down we’re off”

They headed up Mosley Street then took the first Jib off left. We lose them at this point and they reappear again on Cross Street where they head to the tobacconists inside the Royal Exchange block. It was one of the few places in Manchester you can buy a soft top pack of Marlboro Reds. With newly purchased cigarettes lit they sweep across St. Annes square and around The Hidden Jem. Their favorite Jib awaits. As you leave a small arcade of shops behind the Hidden Gem church you can see  an alleyway opposite and just off to the right.  It is brilliant as it has metal hands holding umbrellas overhead. This was the original Jib location the brothers discovered when arriving in rainy Manchester a few years earlier.

“Nearly there,” Haydn said as they entered the Jib. The two both looked up at the umbrellas as it would be rude not to. They exited on to an alley that backed on to John Dalton street,  the home of The Dalton Street Cafe.

“I can smell it”

“I hope there's a table” Marcus Said

“Fear not my Merryman George will sort us out”

They turned right on John Dalton street and the cafe lit up in front of them.

Haydn pushed open the heavy glass door. There could be no more defined difference between inside and outside then this on this day and at this time. 

Inside the noise and the heat hit them. Conversations layered over aromas layered over voices on top of more smells. One voice cut through 

“Good to see you boys” said George

“Amazing to see you George”

George originated from Greece and now he traded in it. He was between forty or one hundred. He was rotund but strong looking, solid. He wore a burgundy waiter’s apron that looked as though it still contained stains from just before the Falklands War. Haydn had mentioned previously that if you carbon dated the egg stain on the top pocket it would be from around the time of the sinking of the General Belgrano. 

“Hang of your horses boys I will l see what I can do”

“Appreciate it George”

Eventually George led them to a table attached to the wall underneath a copper relief of a scene from antiquity. The boys lid along opposite benches.

 “No women today boys?”

“No George” replied Haydn “We are on a mission today”

“The women just slow you down heh boys, tell me about it. I make like Arnold Schwarzenegger and i’ll be back”

“Brilliant, bring an ashtray please Arnold”.

“We should have ordered” said Marcus “save time”

“Nah Fag first and peruse the menu”

“Like we are going to order anything different”

“Who knows it is Christmas”

George arrived back with a heavy glass ashtray. He took a cloth out of his pocket and wiped the table. I am careful not to say he “cleaned the table.” The cloth he was using was mobile E.coli zoo and it appeared to smear the grease around rather than remove it.

“Usual boys?”

“Usual please George”

Marcus gave his brother a fake angry look across the table.

“Very good boys two breakfasts two toast two teas and a cold can of coke?”

“Spot on, hang fire on the coke till the end if you could please?”

George walked off muttering the next year would be his year. He mumbled something about Margret Thatcher like she was a shinning example of where you can get in life if you don’t give a shit.

“Right”  Haydn said, “after this we head directly to Sinclair’s for a bracener and from there we shall mount an assault on Arndale.”

The fry up arrived beford they could finish their fags. It was on the usual oblong plates with fallopian tube flower borders. 

The next few minutes saw hands and sauces and plates and drinks move like a red arrows display team until all toast was buttered and the plates were suitably adored with brown sauce.

“Eyes down look it in” said Haydn

“Let the dog” said Marcus

“See the rabbit” said Haydn " for those who are about to die, I salute you".

“Touche" said Marcus as he began his usual method of food destruction. It was not a subtle. It resembled more a plague of locusts ravaging a sugarcane plantation and at crucial moments a Threshing Shark in shallow water.

Haydn on the other hand was masterful. Items were gently dissected and combined or delicately airlifted to other sections of the plate to await their entrance in another act. It was more a ballet then a mosh-pit. All movements led to what was known as the “Golden Forkful”. The idea was to have each food group representing itself on the final forkful of food. 

Marcus had a piece of tomato, mushroom and bacon sitting on a final piece of toast. He looked up towards his brother for approval.

 “You have done well young Skywalker, but you have omitted sausage and your egg.” Haydn moved a fork with all the ingredients around his plate like one of giant machines on an ice rink. It swept around and up the edges of his plate over to the last bit of brown sauce and back around before disappearing forever, beautiful and transitory.

“George the cokes when you are ready” Said Haydn.

“Right we shotgun the cokes and head to the Sinclairs. There is a possible Jib situation through Waterstones if you fancy it?”

“It would be rude not to”

“Exactly”

The cokes arrived nice and cold. Haydn opened his and gulped it down then burped “Razor blades from a plastic cup.” Said Haydn.

“Right it's 106 miles to Chicago, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half pack of cigarettes, it’s dark out, and we’re wearing sunglasses.”

“Let’s hit it” Marcus said following up.

They lifted off and left money for George on the table

“Good luck Boys”

“We are on a mission from God” Marcus Replied’

They entered Waterstones from the back and swept through like a tornado. They exited out of the front doors holding a bag each with what looked like books but it could have been a board game. 

At that time the Sinclair’s pub was just behind Marks and Spencer and not where it resides today a pale imitation for its former glory. The pub Haydn and Marcus entered had already been moved once to incorporate Marks and Spencer and another move would see it left as it is now an old bored toothless tiger residing behind discolored Perspex. 

“Two museum ales please landlord” Said Haydn resting on the bar tapping a fag out. Then he turned to Marcus “Take my bag and go and grab a table upstairs and I'll be up with these”.

The upstairs was packed, but Marcus found the last table overlooking the courtyard. He placed the bags down. He waved at his brother as he appeared at the top of the stairs. Eventually Haydn saw his brother and beamed with delight. 

The beers were carefully placed without spilling a drop and took he his place alongside his brother. 

“Right the plan is neck these and maybe a quick cheeky follow up then head into the stomach of the beast”.

“What route and will we have time for Toy and Hobby?”

“Yes of course will will and the route is as planned”

“Over to WH Smiths and buy some crap and stuff to wrap the crap in, over to the Body shop for nice smelling crap for mum etcetera. Double back to HMV for vids and CDs and  a calendar or two

“Of what”

“Whatever takes out fancy,  then across to Toy and Hobby to buy shit we actually want for ourselves possibly treat you to the 1970s Brazilian Subbuteo team, then we harpoon a bus and let it pull us home”

“Coolio Inglesias”.

People came and went around them. Shopping bags piled up and disappeared, plates and glasses accumulated and evaporated. Friends were made and lost as the sun started to sink in the window behind their heads.

“Haydie it's” said Marcus trying to look at his watch, he closed one eye then the other eye then both then reopened them “It’s four o’clock the shops shut in a bit”.

“Don’t worry” Haydn slurred his words “Don't worry we....." he pointed at himself then at his bother

"... have a plan, time for just one one beer then we'll jib”