We are Manchester, the city, the place, and we are hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell.

We have had it all before; we do not dwell. We are the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, where the Geordies, the scousers, and the Yorkshires retreat. The Premier League, the Roses cricket, and the Heineken Cup is a one-way ticket. United and City are two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams.

We are Mancunians of this fair city: the people, the love, the old nitty-gritty, the worker, the shirker, the homeless, and the immigrants. Each one of these is an itinerant. The steel, the cotton, long since forgotten; the old, smoky chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten; and the massacre at Peterloo, local politicians just do not have a clue, and with all the sights this city has on show, here is something that people do not really know: Manchester is where New Zealand-born Ernest Rutherford split the atom.

We are Manchester, the city, the place where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace, a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I do not think Lowry ever painted foxes. And a comedian from Collyhurst, he was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton-on-Medlock became prime minister back in the day. David Lloyd George had a hell of a lot to say.

We Are Manchester, and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I'm glad to be. I'll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry, and I wonder why. I see a businessman in a three-piece suit and a homeless guy who is counting his loot. There's a girl on the street giving out free papers; she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain, and she's getting wet; she's worried about money to pay off her debt. We are Manchester, and this is our city; do not waste your time; we do not want any pity.

We are Manchester; we are steeped in tradition. We leave other cities standing. There is no competition. And where a man from Moss Side, who was a clergyman with a dream, the Rev. George Garrett, invented the submarine. The great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario, and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto.

Now, when he wrote This is the place, I am sure he did so with a smile on his face. We are Manchester, and I will state our case because we are Manchester, and we are ace.