A is for All Seasons Deli; Arighi Bianchi, All Seasons in One day;
B is for Bollin and Bailey’s toyshop and Barnaby holidays;
Burdin’s the grocer (now Cheshire Gap); its smell of fresh coffee and cheese;
The Bath Store, which used to be the Co-Op – and that’s just the first of these.
B‘s for the burglar who bought himself gloves to commit his housebreaking crime;
The Macc Express reminded him he shouldn’t buy fingerless ones next time.
Barm cakes which confuse the visitors – even the English ones,
And the thing we remember with tears in our eyes – the cold, grubby bus station -
It is a fact of history; in our memory bus stations live and thrive -
For that’s where we had our first snog, fag or drink, before we could legally drive.
C is for Christ Church and its wobbly graves, before it was tidied and neatened;
Cheshire Gap’s pastries and salads, a whole world of pies to be eaten -
Cinemac, where a shaky screen flickers onto pauper’s school rolls,
And camping in Gawsworth’s wet green fields with mates in our summer hols;
Car parks, which grow up in old buildings’ footprints and then get stamped out by the new;
Clogs on the cobbles, a head-splitting combination of street and shoe.
Chapels on every corner and street, lighting our way from mill to paradise;
Cannabis cottage, a big haul of dope, putting Macc on the map for vice.
….But mostly C is for courting; in Sparrow Park, Victoria Park,
at the Majestic or Picture Drome – literally and metaphorically in the dark….
Dis for Derby Street Warehouse – rainbows of cloth, fetched down with a hook;
And duck races on the Bollin, wading in to rescue a racing plastic duck;
E is for Elvis; the star of the show on the day I arrived at Macc,
For all at the boatyard were dressed as him: they’re crazy; I stayed, for the crack!
F is for Foamhenge, the summer display at Porter’s where they sometimes host poets;
And for Fence Avenue, where the Brocklehursts owned all the land – and didn’t we know it!
G’s for the gas container that stands in its elegant frame,
Rising and setting within its bounds as the sun over Kerridge does the same.
Ginnels and all other native words – nowty and pegging it, popping your clogs and hello my duck -
H is for Hibel Road, where in former times the scolding women were ducked.
Hollins, and Horlicks in proper Horlicks mugs! At the UCP on Chestergate
The Hovis mill, now a stern complex with access through big heavy gates.
The hills where our town sits like a toy in the palm of a hand, half-hid;
“when I could not see the hills it meant it would rain all day, and it did.”
I is for industry, worn like a badge in the town, a sign of a long-lost love,
but also beneath gorse and heather in spoiheaped hills above.
I is for me and My Macclesfield – what it means, what it meant, what it might mean tomorrow;
For embracing the town with its warts and its charms – taking its pleasures in spite of its sorrows.
J is for the jeweller’s clock glowing SAMUEL at the cinema,
And also for Joy Division – never as joyful as the Macc Lads are!
Jodrell Bank, which I see from the Old Buxton Road every day
Listening for miracles in the morning sky, and thankfully here to stay.
K is for King Edwards, and for the red spine of Kerridge as well –
And then again for Kwik Fit – on the site of a haunted hotel.
L is for the library, where all human knowledge is found between pages;
The Liberal Club where the Beatles played, before bigger and better stages.
Lavatories at the end of the yard, the yard shared with four other homes –
Aunty Lily’s on Paradise Street – complete with its old weaver’ looms.
And Ladyzone, which used to be the Co-Op dairy.
M is for markets, including the man who only sold celery;
Bonny trussed chickens and cattle, home made cakes and fresh brown eggs
Brassington’s juicy meat pies, vanilla buns and tea while you rested your legs:
M is for Majestic cinema, selling Poppets and pop as we watched Love Story,
Then headed of to Wimpys for a knick
N is for neglect – of the little Bollin which worked so hard as it scoured the land,
And which we repay by blocking its throat with concrete and Pepsi cans.
Norbury’s garden machinery shop sold its steel and iron wares,
But also your dad’s tobacco, in the thick brown scented air.
O’s for the open air toilet, which curved in a wall to relieve the men
And also for optimism, which foolishly triumphs over the rain.
The Old King’s Head, the many older parts of town,
and One hundred and eight weary steps – plodding up and skipping down.
P is for Paradise Street, where poverty turned into history’s gold;
“My gran had a kitchen which was just a stove – and that was very old”.
Parks in the 1950s, where a misplaced foot would mean
That the parkie would have to chase you off his pristine bowling green.
Parkside, the feared institution surrounded by shrubs and cut grass,
was replaced by a hospital, which itself may be soon to pass.
Mrs Pimlott’s cake shop, where all the cakes seemed a bit burnt;
We kept going back there, though really we should have learnt!
Q is for Queen Anne Infirmary, which stood tall where Sainsbury’s cowers:
Looking out on the miserable sufferers from its great high Rapunzel towers
R is for rain – which usually defeats that smiling optimist;
the ropes on the narrowboats all going green in the endless Macclesfield mists!
The Registry Office, which used to be a library when the library was a bank.
The Rag and bone man – heaving off up the hill with a disused water tank.
S is for silk, S&M supplies, Scraggs electrics near the railway,
And sirens, which like their namesakes make sure no-one gets away.
Sweeties – cough-cops – Jubblies – toffee peanuts – Pontefract cakes –
traffic light lollipops – Black Jacks – all the chemical crap that no-one still makes:
Orange coloured chocolate – white chocolate mice made of candle wax,
Sweet tobacco, Satin cushions and cheesy Snack Attacks.
Sir John Mills, who came here to film So Well Remembered (sadly not at all!)
Sweet Dreams was once the Co-Op dairy – but then weren’t they all?
T is for Tesco’s, the superstore about which we like to whine,
until we need a pint of milk urgently at quarter to nine:
where shunting yards and station once stood in their solid railway bricks;
and for Tripe and onions like jellied carpet and vinegar, with your chips.
U is for unused churches, like the ones the Methodists carelessly scatter;
Christ Church, and one on the Tytherington Road – to them it’s the people, and not the church that matters
V is for vintage motorbikes roaring up the Buxton Road in a flash of leather;
Vimto, hot at Mrs Lord’s shop as we walked back from school in winter weather.
Victorians – who left us their proud architecture on every square and corner;
Vicky Park Flats, briefly rearing their heads between slums and the Chilli Banana.
W for Wesley and West Park Museum, with its Tunnicliffe pictures of birds;
The warmth of the townsfolk, who even when busy will summon a friendly word.
White Nancy, a sweet summer morning’s walk from your door -
And Weather, which shows us what layers are for.
X is extremely challenging, and we leave you to fill its space,
For our poet has tried, but she finds that her brain is simply all over the place.
Y is for youth, which we fondly recall at the thought of the bus station or Picture Drome;
and what we all despair of when we they gather now in that station, or too close to home.
Z is the zig-zag of time, which goes back and forth in its familiar track;
The time that we spend like won pennies, and which we can never win back.
Z marks the end, like the Co-Op rest home which shows to their dying day,
Maxonians know solidarity, and they still know how to save for the next
Inevitable rainy day.
