The 24-hour party people

The Hacienda nightclub may now be luxury apartments but its legend still casts a shadow over Manchester; and while England's reluctantly named second city trumpets its reputation for sporting excellence in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games, many a Mancunian still hankers for the late Eighties, when "Madchester" was a mecca for pill-popping party people rather than prawnsandwicheating businessmen on an Old Trafford hospitality package.

The release this Friday of the movie 24-Hour Party People - which tells the story of those hedonistic days of Factory Records, acid house and The Hac, as the club was known to regulars - will revive memories of glories past. But on this chilly Saturday night, the mission is to find nightlife now.

It's 9pm and ludicrously underdressed girls with corned-beef legs huddle at Piccadilly's bus and tram stops as I head south down Portland Street to the recently completed Deansgate Locks, at the edge of the historic Castlefield district. Here, six bars and the Comedy Store have been built into railway arches beneath Deansgate station.

The Sugar Lounge, which hosted Manchester United footballer Dwight Yorke's birthday bash last November, has been described by one unimpressed local as "Ryan Giggs territory". Crossing the lock bridge, it's clear from the dejected looks of several men in front that they have failed to breach the defences of the pretty girl with the clipboard who must keep out the facially and fiscally challenged.

Employing my best famous-footballer smile, I'm in - and confronted with two high- backed cream thrones, which beg the arrival of Posh and Becks. Built into a single arch, the linen drapes, autumnal hues and wooden bars are warm and welcoming. Up on the mezzanine, the DJ provides a deep, soulful mix of R 'n' B groove for a sea of bouncing, jaffa- tanned cleavages belonging to real- life Chardonnays looking for their night in a shiny Porsche.

Disappointingly, there's not a whiff of celebrity here except for a Nicky Butt (Manchester Utd midfielder) lookalike attracting second glances from certain highheeled quarters coming out of the ladies' (signed "Sugar Babes " ) . One ageing Lothario is attempting to pour pink champagne down the knickers of a squealing young blonde, who continues to get jiggy to Mary J Blige. Cue exit.

Several doors down is the Loaf Bar, occupying two fullheight arches of exposed brickwork. The cream-tiled floor and long bar add to the airy feel. Tara and Izzy, from London, are lounging on the circular brown leather chairs supping gin and tonics. They are celebrating a friend's birthday with a weekend up North. "We love it here," they enthuse. "Six top bars next to each other - it's the easiest pub crawl in the world and everyone is up for having a laugh."

The growing crowds outside, clearly visible from inside any of the glassfronted drinking holes, create a voyeuristic buzz for both sides and Tara is waving at the shivering masses. As the filtered chorus of Kylie's Can't Get You Out of My Head fills the air around midnight, I dash for a cab.

MY destination is Sankey's Soap, a 15-minute cab ride across town to the north- east fringes: the club some Mancunians feel is the natural successor to the Hacienda sits in a virtually derelict wasteland. Joining the queue, I meet a trio of neanderthal bouncers whose social skills would put Vinnie Jones to shame. I eventually make it in and find the land that time forgot: inside this sparse, industrial space they're partying like it's 1989, with banging house beats producing almost comicallydated rave moves from a predominantly male crowd larging it on the sunken dance floor. With one bar, a simple seating area and a bone-shaking sound system, this has all the hallmarks of an old-school illegal rave but without the energy and enthusiasm.

Heading back into town, my last stop is the subterranean Music Box, in Oxford Street. It's 2am and there is a fierce heat from the sea of bobbing heads in the main room, where funky hip-hop turntablists Jake and Ollie (from The Herbaliser) are chopping up old-school funk and breaks on four decks. Camden Market chic - woolly hats, retro tracksuit tops and shell-toe trainers - is de rigueur among the student crowd. The friendly dancefloor frenzy is reminiscent of Hoxton's muchmissed Blue Note club - as the crowd yelps its approval I think I've finally found where Manchester's Party People have been hiding.

Way to go

Paul Clark travelled to Manchester with Virgin Trains (08457 222333, www.virgin.com/trains); weekend returns from £40. He stayed at the centrally located Atrium Central Apartments (0161 237 3367; www. centralapartments.com), five minutes' walk from the Music Box; studios from £115 a night selfcatering. For further information, call the North West Tourist Board (0845 600 6040).

LONDON CLUBBING