Ben & Jerry's Sundae Festival, Lunch at Giraffe and Other Lovely Things

Like it or not, we are living in an age of increasing political correctness. We have all read the gleeful tabloid articles that loudly ridicule the fact that school-children are no longer allowed to play conkers without the use of protective eye-wear (this was never a problem in my day - we were a sedate, lazy bunch who preferred to sit quietly and swap stickers), and that no-one is permitted to go away a loser on Sports Day (again, never an issue for those of us who spent as much of that dreaded day as possible lurking behind the pavillion trying to avoid any kind of physical exercise.) And whilst these kind of extreme examples are easily mocked, we should all of course celebrate that we live in a time of relative equality, where we are all free to celebrate our own worth and value to the world around us.

And yet. A blatant and unfair example of inequality regularly goes unmentioned, swept under the carpet of shame rather than ever being fully acknowledged or addressed. For, much as it pains me to say it, some weekends are simply much, much better than others. Take the weekend I have just had, for example. A bright, shiny, bullying behemoth of a weekend, there's simply no way that a wet couple of days in February spent marking coursework and doing a bit of ironing could ever compete. It claimed all (ALL!) of this as its own:

1. Friday night drinks at the Fletcher Moss. Shame on those of you at the back who are whispering that this is one of Didsbury's Old Man pubs - just because they don't do cocktails doesn't mean that, ahem, terribly young and fashionable people like myself can't go there. They have an excellent selection of red wines by the glass, lovely staff, and second-hand books to buy, and I will defend its desirability as a Friday-night hot-spot until my dying day (at which point, obviously, I will start drinking in the Royal Oak.)

2. Saturday lunch at Giraffe, Spinningfields. Obviously here I've left out the bit where I watched some cricket in my pyjamas and moved directly to the bit where I polished off a plate of Giraffe's mighty Huevos Rancheros in a new world-record time of 8.7 seconds (although I was aided by a strong following wind.) If you've never had this Mexican-inspired breakfast, I'm at a loss to understand why - tortilla with refried beans, chorizo and eggs, made virtuous and healthy by the addition of some salsa and avocado. They serve this breakfast until 4pm, meaning that you can go and try it, even if you're a student.

3. Saturday night takeaway. Now I know on the face of it, to consume an enormous curry (complete with sundries) on the same day as having lunch at Giraffe might look a little greedy, but I asked Twitter its opinion and it came back with a unanimous "Go For It" verdict. And anyway, we went to Amin, where they do the most amazing reduced fat curries, so in all likelihood I burnt off all the calories simply by going to fetch it (or I would have done, if I hadn't in fact sent Mr Liz.)

4. Sunday at the Ben & Jerry's Sundae Festival, Heaton Park. I wrote about this a couple of weeks ago, suggesting a number of reasons why I thought I might be fabulous; it was actually even better than I'd hoped. The sun shone (thereby allowing those of us with Greek tans to watch imperiously as our countrymen and women turned a fetching shade of pink), the bands were fabulous (especially the Fun Lovin' Criminals who, despite swearing with much gusto, couldn't disguise the fact that they are now, essentially, a bunch of really rather cuddly middle-aged men), and the ice-cream was FREE. I felt really rather ashamed of having consumed five gargantuan cones; until, that is, Mr Liz confessed to having lost count at 8.

In fact, there were only two flaws in the whole weekend. Firstly, Waterstones have sold out of tickets for Caitlin Moran on Thursday, so if you have tickets and want me to be your date, please be in touch. Secondly, on Saturday, we walked all the way to Burton Road in West Didsbury to try new(ish) bar Mary and Archie's, only to find it closed for a private party, forcing me to saunter casually but resentfully past pretending that I hadn't really wanted to go in there anyway.

So next time you're picking a cause to support, rather than going for something obvious, consider that poor little February non-weekend - it needs all of us to help protect it from brilliant, swaggering July triumphs.

International Cheese Awards Come to Nantwich; Local Girl Vows Not to Eat for a Week in Readiness

A few weeks ago, I did an introductory lesson to Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale which involved us all sharing our own personal vision of what a dystopian society might be like. Obviously my own view of what exactly would constitute nightmare living conditions - loss of iPhone, coming home to find no Prosecco in the fridge, air-conditioning in car breaking down - had to be swiftly and secretly amended in the face of some shamefully adult suggestions from the class, leading me to nod approvingly as I wrote up "permanent state of war, loss of identity, curtailment of personal freedom etc etc" on the board as if they were the ideas I'd had in my head all along.

Naturally, such a discussion tends to lead to a consideration of the opposite view, and what might feature in a perfect society. Here I am forced to abandon any pretence at noble ideals and confess that my version of utopia - paradise - appears to be happening next week, for on Wednesday 27th July, Nantwich is hosting a DAY BUILT ENTIRELY AROUND THE CONSUMPTION OF CHEESE. Yep, that's right - pop world peace on the back burner, for the International Cheese Awards 2011 are almost here, bigger and better than ever. Established in 1897, this year's festival promises a staggering number of entries vying for the honour of being awarded Supreme Champion - more than 3,650, from around 600 producers and 24 different countries (note to self - take handbag with v. large capacity.)

The celebrity judges this year are chefs Gino D'Acampo and James Martin, and pop star and soap star turned cheese makers Alex James and Sean Wilson, as well as a panel of industry experts who will have made their choices the day before the cheesy paradise is opened up to hungry Cheshire-ites. Tasting takes place in the thrillingly-named Cheese Marquee - 70,000 square feet of dairy goodness to house the 30,000 visitors expected.

*sharpens elbows and perfects get-away-from-my-cheese snarl*

Today - Wednesday 20th July - is the last day for booking reduced-price advance tickets, at just £13 for adults, £9 for OAPs and £7 for Juniors; under-5s go free, so if you have a handy child with big pockets, make sure you take them along. Full-price tickets will also be available on the day - visit the festival website for more details or to pre-book, and whilst you're there, check out last year's Supreme Champion, a gentleman holding the largest and most impressive wedge of parmesan I have EVER seen. I think I'm going to need a bigger hangbag...

Manchester Festival Fun - Dave Haslam, Bernard Sumner, Rocket Theatre; Carlos Tevez NOT Invited

Now, I'm not normally one to take much notice of football-related matters, particularly once the cricket season is underway; my involvement with the beautiful game really only extends as far as playing a risky but amusing game of Guess-The-United-Score-From-Mr-Liz's-Current-Mood once a week during the winter months. It has, however, come to my attention that a hirsute gentleman by the name of Carlos Tevez has requested to leave Manchester City because Manchester is too small and there's nothing to do.

My response to this is two-fold. Firstly, if only Mr Tevez had read an excellent and informative blog by the name of Things To Do in Manchester, he would have realised that, erm, there's loads of things to do in Manchester. Secondly, I can only surmise that Mr Hairy-Face has never been to Albert Square and sat outside in the balmy evening sun, sipping ice-cold beer with friends, during the Manchester International Festival, for this is what I did on Monday and there is absolutely nothing finer. Even better, we were waiting to see Dave Haslam interview Bernard Sumner in the Pavilion Theatre, a large tent masquerading as a fairy grotto for the larger-sized elf, strung with lovely twinkly lights and then seemingly heated to a pleasantly warm 200 degrees centigrade.

I'd been looking forward to this event for ages; since I was about 15 in fact, and I was privately a little terrified that it would all be a huge let down. Would grumpy, taciturn Bernard turn up, refusing to talk about the past and storming off stage after one question too many about Peter Hook? Or would we get the newly-invented housewife's choice Bernard, so recently seen on BBC Breakfast, chatting amiably about his role in two of the most important bands ever to come out of Manchester (or indeed anywhere)?

We got the second one, and Bernard was splendid. He and Dave Haslam talked for an hour and a half about anything and everything, and I think the audience would genuinely have been happy to sit and listen for another hour at least (notwithstanding the possibility that some of the smaller audience members might have melted clean away). The only flaw in the evening was that it took place on a school night, thereby forcing me to miss the DJ set from Terry Hall that took place afterwards (well, that and the highly urgent wee that inevitably follows the loveliness of sitting outside in the balmy evening sun, sipping ice-cold beer with friends etc etc.)

Mr Tevez has perhaps also overlooked that as well as the MIF, a second festival is currently running in Manchester - you know, that place where THERE'S NOTHING TO DO. The Not Part Of festival runs until July 16th, and offers an excellent mixture of theatre, music, literature and comedy - we went to see Rocket Theatre's production of Oscar Wilde's Lord Arthur Savile's Crime on Sunday at the Palace Hotel, and it - joyously - turned out to be an excellent mixture of theatre and cake.

When I say "production", this was essentially a group of greedy people sitting around large communal tables, eating scones and drinking tea, while two energetically talented actors ran around them, acting their socks off and generally giving their all on one of the hottest days of the year so far. The play has been cleverly shortened and adapted so that Martin Harris and Dan Willis can play all the parts, a ruse of which I am often suspicious because I am so easily confused (particularly if it's Shakespearean comedy - far too many twins), but here it works, maintaining the spirit of the play whilst also meaning that you're home in time for Horrible Histories.

Lord Arthur Savile's Crime is on again this coming weekend (9th and 10th July) as well as the following Saturday 16th July - you can go for afternoon tea, as we did, for £22 a head, or for a three course evening meal during the evening performance for £33. NB - if attending the afternoon performance, bear in mind when choosing your table that the dainty sandwiches are self serve and are located at the back of the room; watch your other half's look of confusion at you choosing such apparently rubbish seats turn to open-mouthed admiration as you shoulder-charge your way to the front of the queue, extra large Alan-Partridge-style plate in hand.

So, Mr Tevez, perhaps you're right about Manchester. Or, more likely, perhaps you just weren't looking in the right places.