1988 08 06 Smiths Wally Rangers

Wally Rangers

Forget about Jesse Jackson, Michael Dukakis and George Bush! The important Convention this season was The Smiths' one in Manchester last week. SARAH CHAMPION joined the frond-festooned faithful as they made their strange way round the holy places. Canonisation (Nikonisation?) by KEVIN CUMMINS.

At 10am Morrissey turns up outside the Smiths Convention, pop-star-like in his white GTI. An unexpected guest, perhaps? Certainly not. He drops off two friends, takes one look and drives hurriedly away again.

Is he shy? Is he frightened? Is he worried about being raped by the adoring masses? No, the truth is, he is probably embarrassed by the extreme to which his followers have taken matters.

Manchester University’s Student Union building is a scene of confusion. Red and yellow gladioli all over the place... on the stairs, on tables and hanging out back pockets. On the walls are hand-made posters quoting lyrics. Already the disc cameras are flashing as a queue of disciples with an infinite variety of tour T-shirts snakes up the staircase. As excitable and chattery as kids in a school dinner queue, they hug close their duffle bags and clutch on to George Orwell books.

Whilst the girls indulge in a mannered form of giggling, the boys run their fingers self-consciously through lovingly-cultivated quiffs. Both sexes peer through National Health spectacles... despite having perfect vision!

Everywhere there is the ‘buzz’ of the swapping of anecdotes, the selling of fanzines and the meeting of old friends. It is to be a day of bootleg buying and watching George Formby videos. For many it will be the highlight of the year. Save, of course, for the rumoured, but unlikely, reform of the band. What started off as little more than a sixth-form project by a 17-year-old called Lee, has turned into a major fan and media event.

From all over the globe, teenagers have come to pay homage to the man of the decade and the most important anti-pop pop group of the early ’80s. Spain, France, Holland, Glasgow, Nottingham, Leeds and Southend are all represented.

Spending £7 each on a ticket and hundreds more on travel, what is vital to these fans is the opportunity to at last glimpse the sights of the songs for themselves. A rather shambolic coach tour is laid on and suddenly those oh-so-ordinary landmarks of Manchester are shrines to be captured on hundreds of rolls of film and forever treasured.

When the first stop is made at the Strangeways and Stephen Street road-signs and Strangeways itself, it is tipping-it down. “It’s wonderful!” squeals one Southern Smith obsessive. “The depressing, drizzly atmosphere Morrissey goes on about... I didn’t know it was really like this!” She of course does not realise that it never normally rains in Manchester unless there is a test match or a Royal visit. God must be a fan of Johnny Marr too, it seems.

“It does not look the same!” exclaims Finnish radio reporter Haki disappointedly, as everyone leaps from the bus. Some of the Strangeways road sign is actually missing thanks to previous tourists who had the foresight to bring their own step-ladders and chisel. “Morrissey... Morrissey ... he once stood here?” exclaims another looking up towards the Stephen Street nameplate in total awe.

“Where is HM Prison Strangeways in the glossy Visitor’s Guide to Manchester?” we wonder as we walk round the corner to its formidable entrance. They tell us about John Dalton, Karl Marx and the Peter Loo Massacre.. .but do they tell us where ‘Strangeways Here We Come’ got its name from? Do they heck! Judging by the fuss this dismal establishment causes amidst the coach party, this is a terrible omission.

And the Salford Lad’s Club and the REAL Coronation Street? Why do these landmarks not receive even a passing mention too? As we arrive, four tatty 12-year-old genuine Salford Lads are huddled in the doorway with their bulldog. They pose for photos, perhaps expecting tips like the fake-punks in London. To them the whole thing is highly amusing. They have seen many a Smiths fanatic stop off at this shrine.

‘They’re round here every day - the Americans and that,” says one ‘Lad’, rubbing his nose on his sleeve like the old street-urchin cliche. “It’s stupid! It’s just a doorway with a sign... and the music... It’s bobbins!”

Not holding The Smiths in much regard either, the club owners are soon to sell up. Anyone who phones the place, will be told, “We hate The Smiths. We’re going to sue them!” Since this threat has yet to be acted upon, the caretaker instead takes pleasure in hosing down all those who come close. Kevin Cummins covered his lens just in time...

Another photograph to become legendary in Smiths folklore is that from the Albert Finney session depicting May Edward’s Salford Off Licence. As the coachloads of visitors descend, May herself is somewhat confused. “Would you like your photo taken?” we ask. “Ooooh! I’m not dressed for it,” she proclaims and scurries upstairs to slap on a little makeup, change her dress and stick on some high-heels.

“I’ve never heard The Smiths, you know,” she says. “I was in hospital at the time the photo was taken. It was only when I came home that the kids came in and said my shop was famous...”

On the other side of town, in a street of semi-detached houses as ordinary as any, we come across the one-time home of Morrissey himself, still lived in by his father. Mr Morrissey is at home, but ignores frantic knocking by your NME reporter. “What’s it like having people constantly disturb your privacy?” is the call through the letter box. Not even the slightest murmur of reply is forthcoming, but the next door neighbour points out that the family are constantly pestered.

Back on the bus, one girl brags how she went out the back and actually saw “Morrissey's toilet!' Since, contrary to popular belief, houses in Manchester do not any longer have outside loos... she must be telling fibs. Just like the man in the sweet shop who gloated, “Yes, Steven used to come in here every morning on his way to school and buy sweets from the penny tray...”

After buying his cola-bottles and chewies, the young Steven would presumably then cross the railway footbridge to St Joseph’s junior school. Yes, THE iron bridge which Morrissey would later write about kissing!

Round the corner is Morrissey’s Catholic secondary school St Mary’s. There’s just enough time to admire the establishment, which also brought us Marc Riley and other Manchester luminaries, before we’re off to the final stop, Southern Cemetery.

Here, the cemetery authorities have banned the day-trippers from wandering inside but the Cemetery Gates to one of the biggest graveyards in Europe prove enough of a thrill alone. Until plans go slightly amiss as the entire party is nearly mown down by a hearse that is...

On through Whalley Range and Rusholme the tired, but happy, handsome young devils natter about how the songs will now mean so much more. Back at the University, it’s realised that the Holy Name church is just opposite. The earnest young men choose not to steal lead from the roof, instead they just lay down their wilted gladioli in respect.

With all this extreme fervour, it’s almost as if Morrissey himself were dead and this were his annual memorial gathering. All very odd, considering that, at the time of going to press, the great man Morrissey is alive and well and living in Altringham...