Lord Ponsonby of Longsight

There are gentlemen, and then there’s Lord Ponsonby of Longsight, a fella who looks like he’s just stepped out of a Guy Ritchie film, narrowly avoided a debt collector in Mayfair and somehow ended up supping a brew on Stockport Road. A man of apparent means, questionable business dealings and an unshakeable belief that he’s better dressed than everyone else in the room. Ponsonby favours the sort of attire that whispers old money whilst looking like it’s been on a bit of a knees-up round Manchester. Smart but scruffy, posh but practical, the sort of chap who could attend a country estate auction in the morning and get roped into a suspicious exchange behind the precinct by lunchtime. His headwear changes with the frequency of the 192 bus, alternating between woodland shades and rich, earthy tones depending on the weather, his mood and, presumably, the current state of his offshore accounts. Beneath it all, there’s always another layer. Always.

Now, a Lord doesn't simply nip out for a pint of milk. No, sir. Ponsonby prepares for every outing as though he's about to flee the country with three stolen racehorses and a suitcase full of unmarked banknotes. His ensemble is a carefully calculated muddle of rugby-shirt nonchalance, heavyweight sweatshirts and sturdy trousers in shades best described as expensive puddle. Over the top goes a weather-beaten outer layer, ready for the sort of Manchester drizzle that gets into your bones and stays there until June. On his feet, a pair of beautifully substantial shoes suggest a man who knows his way around a country lane, a backstreet boozer and the occasional discreet getaway. And then there's the bag. Good grief, the bag. A great hulking vessel of Lordly essentials, containing everything from mysterious correspondence and antique silverware to emergency biscuits, spare socks, a dog-eared racing form and a big long gun. Whether the firearm is for self-defence, a spot of gentlemanly duelling or simply part of an elaborate inheritance dispute is anyone's guess. We don't ask questions in Longsight. We nod politely and mind our own business.

Come the afternoon, you'll find his Lordship ambling about Longsight with the confidence of a man who owns three properties but has never once put the bins out. He'll swap his cap, pull another layer from the bottomless pit of his bag and crack on. One minute he's cutting a dash outside the corner shop, the next he's inspecting a suspicious-looking pigeon with the intensity of a detective investigating a missing diamond. There's something undeniably cinematic about the whole affair: a touch of backroom dealings, a hint of inherited fortune and the air of a bloke who's got a very interesting story but absolutely no intention of telling you the truth. Perhaps he's a disgraced aristocrat. Perhaps he's a retired bookmaker. Perhaps he's just some fella from Manchester with excellent taste and a flair for the dramatic. Whatever the truth, Lord Ponsonby of Longsight remains a local enigma, wrapped in layers, weighed down by worldly possessions and never more than five minutes away from changing his hat. God save the King. God bless Longsight. And somebody keep an eye on that bag.