The ONE Secret to 10x Creativity with 10x Less Budget - ft. Bold Bean Co, David Bowie and a Lancashire Countryside Pub

2 days after the 2nd nuclear explosion, I found the pub in the grim rain. 43 minutes North East from Manchester. This pub took me somewhere else. Maybe from Manchester to Mars.

A Haughty, naughty, juddering, thundering jaunt upwards to the Space Oddity.

What was the first explosion, I hear you thinking?
Why? Where?
What happened?

The 1st Nuclear Explosion caused people to sway in rapturous, raucous brilliant-bewilderment. In the late 1980’s. Dance met Rock. Punk hugged House. Hacienda. Acid House.

Fokka-ye pal-let’s be fokin’ havin’-ye’s attitude. New Order. Joy Division. Happy Mondays. James. The Smiths. The Stone Roses. Oasis. MADchester changed forever.

Well, well, well,

MADchester 2.0 is here. The Food revolution in Manchester is exploding. Bubbling - - spewing - -spitting - - soaring - - out the Red Brick-sod-off-ye—-prick Manc Metropolis.

Happy Munchdays.
Hautecuisinenda.
New Order-at-the-bar, ya prick.
The Smiths and Western (hahahahahahahhahaha, Dad in Floral shirt-Flairs-and-too-many-bangals-joke, right there)

Manchester’s food scene is flying. Fairground of Fun Flourishing Florid Fabulousness.

Rudy’s Pizza.
Ramona Pizza. Bundobust. The Black Friar. Mackie Mayer. Altrincham Market.

Out of the first Nuclear explosion came a pub called The Cartford Inn.

My friend, Dom, told me about it, saying it’s “the most creative pub in the world, great food and based on David Bowie… you simple have to go and do a podcast with them ”

Me gusto a slither of this sensory joy.
Nay, a thick slice.
No, the full cake.
Nigh, the full shabang.

I’d just recorded a podcast with Warehouse Project Founder and Parklife founder, Sacha Lord.

Tastebuds primed for a Rave of Flave. I headed North. Drizzling rain spat down, clouds a malevolent yummy moodyness in them. Thick, clotting and cloying Rain d..r…i…z..zz..i..lll.ee..dd. down. North, I charged.

The Cartford Inn is different.

Outside. Pleasantly unassuming. Yet, dangerously intriguing. Like an Old Lady you’d see at a mid-morning bus stop with a Bag for Life. Yet at any moment she’s dancing in Hot Pants to Acid House.

Step inside. Narnia-BLAH. And Bowie. And Life on Mars. And Art on the Walls: mosaic of MAD, slicing up the prosaic monotony of MEH.

Feel like my Noggin’s been dunked in a throbbing-pinball machine and explosive glitter-bomb. A gazillion f-lASHES, liGHt- s - s-s . TAKEovaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Quirks and Irks and Besserk. Trampoline for yaaaaa mind, our kidddd.

Food is FUCKING sensational. Proper comfort hug. No nonsense Northern Grub.

The Young lad looking after me, Ollie, a PPE student, foodie-thru-n-foodie-thru

“Mateee, the Suit Pie, is DE-LECT-ABLE, pal - I’d scran 3 of them, I tells ye, pal”

I order one, obvs.

A bosom of filthy unctuous, unadulterated steaming gluttony plops on the table. Cholesterol-soaked pudding is muddy-meaty-puddles of joy. I devour, hastily.

We live in a world where a panoply of pervading Gastro-wank gobbles up and ruins pubs.

General Managers called Gavin (Gav, when he’s in a good mood) believe they’re Military Generals. River Island Rangers. Sly-Sausage-Roll-Scoffers. Front of House-who’d rather-Be on Sofa’s.

The Cartord Inn is different. Head on Mars. Heart on Earth. Soul in The Cartord Inn.