Bernard Manning is dead
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Bruce Rioja
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Re: Bernard Manning is dead
Unto each, his own, Batman.Batman wrote:RIP
Funny funny man, a victim of the PC knobbers.
I don't consider myself to be PC, it's just that I didn't find his stuff funny at all. Interesting that you call him a "victim" when that's what most of his material seemed dependant upon.
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TANGODANCER
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Bernard was a product of another era; an era when things were different and what is considered so wrong today, wasn't then. That simple. The world has moved on.
He would never have got started as a comedien today. What he did was make people laugh about things that seemed funny based on the times. He did make a lot of people laugh and, whilst his stuff was blue as the sky, not all of it was regarding race. For me, he was a very funny man at the time. That's the crux of it. We live in a different world now and he won't be offending anyone anymore. R.I.P from me.
He would never have got started as a comedien today. What he did was make people laugh about things that seemed funny based on the times. He did make a lot of people laugh and, whilst his stuff was blue as the sky, not all of it was regarding race. For me, he was a very funny man at the time. That's the crux of it. We live in a different world now and he won't be offending anyone anymore. R.I.P from me.
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Bruce Rioja
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I'm sure that you're right, it's just that I didn't find it funny. That's just me though, I find self-deprecation to be hilarious, and having a pop at others not so funny.Batman wrote:C'mon, there wasn't an ounce of nastiness in his body, it was all mickey-taking.
Q Magazine did this pre-gig interview with him years ago at The Embassy Club that's stuck in my mind, and clearly the interviewer was trying to be a smart arse and make out to Manning that he was yesterday's comedian and his time was up, that he was a bigoted racist etc. etc. Manning said to him "Look son, you'll see me go out there in a minute and you'll be saying to yourself by the end of it 'How the feck does he do it?'". Of course, the piece ended with the place in an uproar of hilarity, and the interviewer asking himself exactly that.
What I'm saying is, Batty, that the guy was clearly up there with the best at what he did, if not THE best, it's just that what he did wasn't particularly my bag.
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Bruce Rioja
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Bruce Rioja
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CrazyHorse
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Bruce Rioja
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"It's not supposed to be funny"? Of course it's supposed to be funny. It's him trying to promote his brand of humour against that that's deemed to be a current brand of humour! Quite frankly, Hoss, if you're too dim to realise that then I'm not sure that you should be in a position in which one specifically deems what is or isn't suitable for a website!CrazyHorse wrote:lol!
It's not supposed to be funny, it's Bernard bemusedly slagging off the Mighty Boosh and Little Britain!
Last edited by Bruce Rioja on Mon Jun 18, 2007 10:14 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Little Green Man
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Mich Caine
I liked that. Indeed it wasn't meant to be funny, it was his thoughts on two absolutely shit comedies - Little Britain is just pathetic, only deemed funny by halfwits because there is so little comedy on tv these days.
I would rather have a leg off than watch either of those two programmes. Well said Bernard.
RIP.
RIP Ken Bigley too.
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CrazyHorse
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Bruce Rioja wrote:"It's not supposed to be funny"? Of course it's supposed to be funny. It's him trying to promote his brand of humour against that that's deemed to be a currenet brand of humour! Quite frankly, Hoss, if you're too dim to realise that then I'm not sure that you should be in a position in which one specifically deems what is or isn't suitable for a website!CrazyHorse wrote:lol!
It's not supposed to be funny, it's Bernard bemusedly slagging off the Mighty Boosh and Little Britain!
I hear what you're saying and I take your points on board....particularly about the dim thing - ya cheeky get.
However, I watched the program with the Manning clip in it when it was broadcast and it wasn't like you think; it was more of a documentary showing how comedy has changed over the last few years. It was called something like "Comedy Through the Ages"
Anyway, the various comedians chatted about their own brand of humour and compared it with each others. 'twas quite a good show. The long and short of it was that everyone hated Alternative Comedy and that Alexei Sayle was a tosser. 
Businesswoman of the year.
Bernard Manning opened the Hacienda nightclub 
Some people say the opening night of the Haçienda was empty. That's crap. The opening night was packed; it was the next five years that were empty. Sometimes it was better that way. Better empty for the art when the only art was the look and the sound was well down the list.
It's fair to say that the opening night crew - Manchester's finest, half a hundred Londoners who knew what was going on plus a scattering of celebs from Leeds, Liverpool and Leith - got in the way of the decor. Too many people to get a full-on view of those wonderful pale blue walls, of the serried banks of gelled fluorescents on carefully chosen surfaces. Couldn't see the concreted-in cat's eyes, the forty-seven of them that lined the dance floor, for all them f*ckers dancing. Good night, though. Alan took a back seat. Being anywhere, stationary, for more than ninety seconds had become a problem for Alan. St Vitus' dance, Wilson's mother might have called it. He was here, he was there and he was sort of never really anywhere, driven to the next thing which then became the past thing. Doing normal stuff was becoming a rarity. So Gretton and Wilson weren't too worried when he rang to put his forty-three friends on the door and inconclusive about when he himself would put in an appearance.
Opening night was crazy. This piece of industrial fantasy street was perfect for parties. Nooks and crannies, a narrative of space, taking you to the balcony via Ben's joke post-modernist arch, up and down the corridor that took you behind the games room to the basement cocktail bar. There, that dates you. Cocktail bars. Early eighties, mate. Shame they had a comeback in the late nineties.
It would have been nice if the invited guests had said 'Oh' when the very special guest came out on stage to declare the club officially open. The special guest was Bernard Manning - a large, obscene, allegedly racist comedian who had a national reputation for being the most obnoxious and politically incorrect laffmeister on the planet.
He had been chosen 'cause this was the Haçienda and the guys had decided to wake a few buggers up. Manning was a semi-national institution. Would take the piss out of anything and had developed a reputation with the liberal middle classes as a racist. For the uninitiated, he made Archie Bunker look like Ghandi.
The emergence of Bernard into this swirling arena of hip had the desired effect. Thirty seconds' high-pitched booing, yelling, profanity and abuse. The attendees were shocked and angry. They screamed at the big man on the little stage.
After an eternity...
'Why don't you shut the f*ck up?' said Manning.
That trebled the abuse volume levels.
'F*ck you,' said Bernard, entering into the spirit of it all.
'Fuuuuuuuuckkkkkk youuu,' they screamed back.
'Bloody shit PA,' said the man from the Embassy Club.
Sidestage, Hooky put his head in his hands. 'Bernard Manning is taking the piss out of our sound system. This can't be happening.'
Mr Manning took another ten seconds on the chin. He used to give it, so he took it. If you ever went to his club in north Manchester, there was one rule: never go to the toilet. The man will kill you. Kill you.
So he took it and then, with an imperial 'F*ck you all', wandered off stage.
Gretton and Wilson were pleased. An event. This was Manchester.
Afterwards, in the basement party, Wilson offered Manning a white envelope.
'What the f*ck's that?'
'Three hundred pounds, Mr Manning. Your fee.'
'F*ck the fee. I didn't do anything. Keep it.'
This was Manchester.
Some people say the opening night of the Haçienda was empty. That's crap. The opening night was packed; it was the next five years that were empty. Sometimes it was better that way. Better empty for the art when the only art was the look and the sound was well down the list.
It's fair to say that the opening night crew - Manchester's finest, half a hundred Londoners who knew what was going on plus a scattering of celebs from Leeds, Liverpool and Leith - got in the way of the decor. Too many people to get a full-on view of those wonderful pale blue walls, of the serried banks of gelled fluorescents on carefully chosen surfaces. Couldn't see the concreted-in cat's eyes, the forty-seven of them that lined the dance floor, for all them f*ckers dancing. Good night, though. Alan took a back seat. Being anywhere, stationary, for more than ninety seconds had become a problem for Alan. St Vitus' dance, Wilson's mother might have called it. He was here, he was there and he was sort of never really anywhere, driven to the next thing which then became the past thing. Doing normal stuff was becoming a rarity. So Gretton and Wilson weren't too worried when he rang to put his forty-three friends on the door and inconclusive about when he himself would put in an appearance.
Opening night was crazy. This piece of industrial fantasy street was perfect for parties. Nooks and crannies, a narrative of space, taking you to the balcony via Ben's joke post-modernist arch, up and down the corridor that took you behind the games room to the basement cocktail bar. There, that dates you. Cocktail bars. Early eighties, mate. Shame they had a comeback in the late nineties.
It would have been nice if the invited guests had said 'Oh' when the very special guest came out on stage to declare the club officially open. The special guest was Bernard Manning - a large, obscene, allegedly racist comedian who had a national reputation for being the most obnoxious and politically incorrect laffmeister on the planet.
He had been chosen 'cause this was the Haçienda and the guys had decided to wake a few buggers up. Manning was a semi-national institution. Would take the piss out of anything and had developed a reputation with the liberal middle classes as a racist. For the uninitiated, he made Archie Bunker look like Ghandi.
The emergence of Bernard into this swirling arena of hip had the desired effect. Thirty seconds' high-pitched booing, yelling, profanity and abuse. The attendees were shocked and angry. They screamed at the big man on the little stage.
After an eternity...
'Why don't you shut the f*ck up?' said Manning.
That trebled the abuse volume levels.
'F*ck you,' said Bernard, entering into the spirit of it all.
'Fuuuuuuuuckkkkkk youuu,' they screamed back.
'Bloody shit PA,' said the man from the Embassy Club.
Sidestage, Hooky put his head in his hands. 'Bernard Manning is taking the piss out of our sound system. This can't be happening.'
Mr Manning took another ten seconds on the chin. He used to give it, so he took it. If you ever went to his club in north Manchester, there was one rule: never go to the toilet. The man will kill you. Kill you.
So he took it and then, with an imperial 'F*ck you all', wandered off stage.
Gretton and Wilson were pleased. An event. This was Manchester.
Afterwards, in the basement party, Wilson offered Manning a white envelope.
'What the f*ck's that?'
'Three hundred pounds, Mr Manning. Your fee.'
'F*ck the fee. I didn't do anything. Keep it.'
This was Manchester.
Mich Caine wrote: Lets not joke about this. I make Mr T look like Walter from The Beano.
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