In the words of one of those promotional videos used to promote 6th form colleges—’MANCHESTER IS CHANGING’. Nowhere is this more evident than in the harsh molten core of the city centre.
Shops peddlin’ pet food and porn have been phased out in favour of chain bars cunningly disguised as independent establishments—whilst the humble phone-box, a proven shelter for the vagabond, is being eradicated in favour of open-air digital nodes.
Amidst all this, Empire Exchange remains—its outdoor speakers still blaring out forgotten classics of the hit parade straight into the ears of passing shoppers.
Reportedly opened in the Corn Exchange back in 1988 (and now located within acrid spitting distance from Piccadilly Gardens), this majestic cesspit of ephemera is a compacted car-boot sale of wondrous detritus—one last stronghold for damp books, broken cameras and chipped commemorative plates before they’re lugged to the landfill.
This place sometimes gets attention due to its old time charm, but it’s important to state that Empire Exchange isn’t just some tourist attraction window into ‘historic Manchester’—and it actually sells decent, interesting stuff that can’t be bought anywhere else. I can’t vouch for the quality of the aged smut it stocks in the shady hidden aisle beyond the far wall, but I’ve uncovered countless gems whilst poring through the plastic tubs of old music magazines in the shop’s main room—from xeroxed horror fanzines to plastic bags full of family photos.
It might be said that 99% of the stuff sold here is pretty useless (unless you enjoy reading mould-ridden copies of Q Magazine from the mid-2000s), but if you can be bothered to put the time into scouring through the rubbish, ye shall be rewarded (providing you enjoy reading mould-ridden copies of Speedway Star from the mid-70s).
I think some of the appeal of this place lies in the fact you’re never sure what you’ll find once you stroll down those stairs. I read somewhere that gambling is so addictive due to its random nature—and maybe searching through crates of old tat offers a similar bizarre buzz? Is the brain flooded with dopamine when you manage to score a copy of The Face in a box full of Dr Who mags? Quite possibly.
In the wide spectrum of possible addictions, hoarding old magazines doesn’t seem too bad.
On the subject of Manchester second-hand emporiums, respect must also be given to Paramount Books on the other side of town—a second-hand bookshop ironically owned by a man with two plastic hands. Long may these fine establishments remain and long may they reign.
Roman Candle Magazine 