I spent a very enjoyable weekend in Liverpool recently.  I’m sure the weather helped enormously, but there was something about the city, a vibrancy, openness, warmth, that I’ve never felt in my home town of Manchester… and that I’m certain not to get in Stornoway, where I’m sure a wicker effigy awaits me.

What the fuck is wrong with my dog?

Anyway (:@), Liverpool.  It’s my mother’s place of birth, the place she still calls home; the place my dad calls home, despite having never lived there.  As children, we’d be dragged there all the time, catching the bus down to the Pier Head where we’d look at the Liver Buildings – again – go on the Mersey Ferry and back – again – stand bored as Mum allowed herself to be washed by the breeze coming from the big river – A-FUCKING-GAIN.

Back then, it was a shithole.  It was always grey, raining.  The best thing about the place was the St John’s Centre, which in comparison to Manchester’s Arndale, was awful.  There, the finest dining could be found in Gregg’s sit down cafe, or maybe is was Sayers.

Liverpool was naff.  The people were up their own arses; they had a huge chip on their shoulders and were determined to drag themselves down, while wallowing in the collective grief of Boys from the Black Stuff.  They needed to get a grip and forget their past glories – move on, it’s the 1980s!

Regeneration has come to Liverpool though, at least around the dock area.  The place is unrecognisable from that dreary, rain-soaked dump that I visited so many times as a youngster.  It’s fair to say that the main reason for this new found glamour is a shiny shopping centre that houses all the same shops that you’d find anywhere else in the world, but it’s much more than that.  There’s a vibrancy and positivity that I don’t feel in Manchester, which seems edgy in comparison.  You walk around the city (not the St John’s area, which is still awful) and it feels wealthy and proud, as it used to be when it was in its pomp.  It’s a place where people want to visit from all over the world, a truly international attraction.  This is good to observe – Liverpool deserves a break and hopefully, the regeneration of the city centre will send ripples of optimism and an economic boost out to the poorer areas.

My previous trip to Liverpool was tainted by much sadness as it was on the day that I realised my then partner was on the verge of betraying me for another.  The memories of the place were not good for me.

So, what the hell was I doing there this time?  Primarily, we were there to see Jools Holland and his R&B Orchestra in concert.  Excellent – nothing more that needs to be added.  We decided to make a break of it and arranged to stay in a rather cool hotel in the heart of the action and this gave us the opportunity to explore the place – Albert Dock, Tate Liverpool (I still don’t get art), St George’s Hall, Pier Head, Liverpool One, Maritime Museum, etc.

It was when were making our down to the Maritime Museum (worth a visit, very good) when I saw a woman walking (marching) towards us with a bearded man alongside her.  I stared in horror, did a double take, blinked and exclaimed “Fucking hell, it’s CYNTHIA!”.

The other week, I noted learning of the death of Marie from Base 2a.  Cynthia, fucking eccentric to the extreme CYNTHIA, worked with Marie.  Cynthia (Carmelita in very early blog posts) drove me up the fucking wall for six years.  And there she was, marching with a purpose past Costa Coffee in Liverpool One.  She was too wrapped up in speaking Russian to her husband, the hairy man (he’s Russian), to notice my gobsmacked face gawping at her.  But the coincidence knocked me for six.

Photo time:

Good boy, bad boy… so confused (and that’s Tucker Smallwood, Black god from the Sarah Silverman Programme)

Toasty bed – a Gormley

No idea what that building is

Everywhere seems to have a wheel these days, and everyone seems to take a night shot of it reflected in something or other

I feared that coincidence would haunt me further on a trip to Waterloo (home of mental Ruthie) to witness Anthony Gormley’s Another Place, but I was spared bumping into the Scouse lunatic – not surprising really, since all she does sit in her flat and surf the internet for another victim to attack in an unremitting assault of madness.  Here’s the deal with the bronze beach people:

Oh look, another Sniffy seascape with a wonky horizon

As you grow up, you become more appreciative of the history of a place.  I still think Scousers have a huge chip on their shoulders and that they’re the worst grief junkies in the world, but they have a pride in their city and their roots that should be applauded and cherished.  So long as they don’t open their mouths.