I passed by almost every day, cycling back and to, to work.
One day I stopped, popped in, asked to chat and snap – Tony obliged.
Cypriot George in the city centre had already give me salon time.
These photographs were taken in March 2104 – Tony’s still there, cutting hair.
Since 1971, presiding over his empire of mainly masculine ephemera, rival football clubs fight it out for space on the crowded walls. Motorcycles race around the dado rail, stood stock still, gathering another dusting of dust. A slow accretion of memories and memorabilia, tracing a lengthy short back and sides life, of short back and sides, as stylists’ style snaps come in and out of style and back again.
Let’s take a look.
Thanks again Tony a privilege to spend some time in your world.
I came here on February 25th 2014, arrived early the shop was still closed, I’ll pop back.
Walked around the block and found that true to his word, he had re-opened.
I explained my intentions, asking to spend some time in the salon, chat and take some snaps as he worked away.
He was more than happy to accommodate my needs, he worked, we chatted, I snapped. This was some seven years ago now, typically, I forgot to make any written notes. Suffice to say he had been there some 48 years finally retiring on Christmas Eve 2014.
As city centre Manchester changes for good or for bad, the likelihood of a neighbourhood barber appearing is negligible. It was a privilege to spend some time with George, one of many Cypriot immigrants who found work here between and after the wars, we were more than happy to welcome him here.
I first came here some twenty years ago or so and on each subsequent visit little seems to change.
The exterior signage and fascia remain intact.
The orange light shades are still hanging limp and bright from the suspended ceiling.
The furniture and scarlet carpet unmoved, as the cheery waiting staff weave merrily in, out and round about with meals and drinks.
The distinctive white relief sits in the same place on the wall.
Almost inevitably I order a mug of tea.
Along with a plate of eggs chips and peas.
Eat and drink the lot and leave happy and contented – who can resist a well run, well appointed classic café?
A well-known and respected figure in the Bradford business world, Mr Paul Georgiou ran Fountains Coffee House in John Street for just shy of 50 years alongside his wife Mary, and has run cafés and other businesses in the city for almost six decades.
Other ventures created by Mr Georgiou include the Hole in the Wall nightclub, which was one of the first underground nightclubs in the city centre.It hosted acts including Sir Tom Jones and rockers Thin Lizzy as they rose to fame in the late 1960s and early 1970.
Sadly he passed away in 2019.
His main business Fountains Coffee House is now managed by his son Michael, but when it opened it was one of the first businesses to open in the John Street Market, as the Oastler centre was known then.
Ernest Whiteley opened the shop on Easter Sunday 1901
His first week’s taking were £7 14s 1d.
He thought that he had done very well – says granddaughter Ann Clough.
Grandad lost his sight in 1940, I became his eyes. When he lost his sight and he handed over the till keys to mother, they had a little weep.He handed over to my mother because father had died three months before.
Ann has run the shop for the last sixty years, along with Sue, a full-timer for some thirty years.
The rep isn’t coming any more, ordering is online, that’s no good to us.
This is a cash only low-tech, high stock operation.
If they don’t have it – it probably doesn’t exist.
From the outside little has changed sine the 1930s, wide glass, well arranged windows, displaying a wide array of wondrous haberdashery.
All contained within an arcade with Art Deco detailing.
There are many, many mannequins from another age.
One man from Scotland stayed for hours, he had a fetish for the mannequins, we couldn’t get rid of him.
The side of the shop is largely given over to net curtains of every size, shape and design, labelled Monica, Daisy, Andrea, Vicky or Sarah.
The names were chosen by Sue, it’s a lot easier for people to say, I want Vicky, 36 deep, than the one with the squiggly flowers, or to remember the manufacturer’s number.
Inside is a haven of domesticity, dusters abound, along with all the other attendant cloths and towels to ensure household cleanliness.
Not forgetting the correct clothing for those domestic chores.
The original display units are a delight.
Almost every surface is awash with lady’s unmentionables – winter draws on, wrap up.
There are covers and doilies of every description.
And the finest display of sensibly priced handkerchiefs, fancy and plain.
Every sign and tag hand written with pride.
It was, as ever a privilege and a joy to spend a short time in another world, thanks ever so to Ann and Sue for their time and patience.
If your passing pop in spend a pound or two – I bought three dish cloths.
One customer told me he was going to a party dressed in a white mini-dress, purple wig, thigh boots and black tights, he came to look at nighties and tried one on in the changing cubicle. You’ve got to be broad-minded. It can be very disconcerting when you hear a man zipping up a corset.
The Orange Order is a conservative unionist organisation, with links to Ulster loyalism. It campaigned against Scottish independence in 2014. The Order sees itself as defending Protestant civil and religious liberties, whilst critics accuse the Order of being sectarian, triumphalist, and supremacist. As a strict Protestant society, it does not accept non-Protestants as members unless they convert and adhere to the principles of Orangeism, nor does it accept Protestants married to Catholics. Although many Orange marches are without incident, marches through mainly Catholic and Irish nationalist neighbourhoods are controversial and have often led to violence.
On the morning of March 28th 2015 I had taken the train to Scarborough, to spend a few days by the sea. As we passed throughHuddersfield and on into deepest Yorkshire, the carriage began to fill up at each stop with men, mainly men.
Men in dark overcoats, men with cropped hair, men sharing an unfamiliar familiarity. Intrigued, I enquired of my cultish companions the what, where, when and why of their collective purpose.
It transpired that they were all adherents of the Orange Order, Scarborough bound to participate in the annual Orange March.
On arrival we parted, but we were to meet up later in the day – I walked down to the foreshore and waited.
This is what I saw.
This year the march was cancelled.
You wouldn’t want anyone to catch anything, would you now?