Back then long time ago, when grass was green.

Well now.
London, innit. I’m back. Me old China.

Ta ra Liverpool, but this was a call I had to answer. You see, I’ve landed a rather boffo writing job, and it’ll probably do for me to be back in the sooty bosom of the city. Back on the streets, soaking up the dirt, the hardship, the struggle and then wringing it out into my new writing gig, on the most quintessentially Laandaan of telly shows.

But just because I’m going to work and walking round sets with a massive, idiotic grin on my face, doesn’t mean that I don’t still love you and miss you, Liverpool.

I remember when first we met. In the summer. I stepped off the train at Lime Street, where you greeted me with a statue of Ken Dodd. ‘What? The Beatles? Don’t be soft, kid,’ you winked, only to later hitch up your skirt and remind me about the airport, the museums, the bus tours, the plaques, the clubs, the street festival, the walks... ‘We’ve got a statue of Billy Fury down by the river.’

You might have had your hair teased up and your nails done, but that first walk past the dreaded karaoke pubs hinted that you were a dirty bird at heart. Oh, you could be very clean and pristine when you wanted, in your new Liverpool One duds – with your multiplex and hotels and avenues of shops all glass and steel, but there was always a back-alley charm to you. Bold Street, home to Resurrection and my shopgirl crushes (Josh Homme - ‘I Wanna Make it Wit Chu’ playing when I walk in. Has to be a sign, right?). Home to Tabac, all red leather and breakfast. Home to Mattas, where the shopkeeper has the best voice; a rumbling Ringo variation so deep it’s on the Richter scale, and the walls are decked in sauce and spice. Home to Oxfam, where someone kept donating Lawrence Blocks to keep my bookshelves healthy and the girl at the counter wore a hat and was too young for me. There was Leaf, late to the party. We had toast and tea together. Before my van took me back to London, I saw one of the Leaf girls in Tescos. We came to the self-service checkout at the same time. I said she could go first, I insist, but she said she got there a second after me. I should have said that I wanted her to go first so I could stay in Liverpool a minute longer. But I didn’t. I bought two chicken wraps and a 7up and left. Round the corner there was FACT, where we sat on couches and watched fillums together. And tucked behind all that was Alma de Cuba – the outlandish church/cocktail bar/carnival only you could have pulled off. There was the Zanzibar, packed with subterranean sounds, Heebie Jeebies, with its love-sofa, its squashed patrons, its inevitable fights and glass-smashing, its wagers won. The Masque, where Ten Bands Ten Minutes was a first kiss of cover-versions. There was New Year at Le Bateau. There was The Kazimier, a secret door to a Ridley Scott deco-box, all dry ice and cider.

And what of World’s Apart? My local comic book shop. They told me the issue of X-Men I’d bought looked like a porno and THIS IS NOT A LIBRARY. They treated me mean, it kept me keen.

Then, after I’d gotten to know you better, you showed your softer side, your summer dress. Lark Lane. The Moon & Pea. I could stop and join friends for a breakfast, then pop across the street for a honeycomb ice-cream to take to the park. Dear, sweet, Sefton Park. Even in rain you were pretty, but in sun you were gorgeous. I’m sorry I didn’t spend more time with you. I hoped we’d move in together – that I’d trade my town-house for something woodier, with beams and old doors. I hoped we’d go steady, but we were just a fling. Maybe it’s better that way.

In London I think they call The Asda just plain old ‘Asda’. Tesco’s ends in ‘Oh’, and I don’t think they even have a Home and Bargains. Maybe it’s ‘The Waitrose’ here. It all feels so confusing.

You might have kicked up some gale-force tantrums, shaking the windows, turning my umbrella inside out, howling away all night – but when you calmed down you had such a bright apology. For the price of a magazine and a bottle of pop, I could take the train to Crosby, Formby or Southport. Blue skies and horizons. Not some purple-grey sheet pulled over a sea of buildings. In the evenings you’d impress me with oranges and pinks and streaks of inky blue. The rain would roll in off the Mersey for twenty minutes at a time. It all ended up in Manchester anyway.

And then there were the people. The talent. You introduced me to people who have changed my life. People so rare and wonderful. Should I name and shame them? I won’t, because we’ll be here all day. They know who they are. Some were local; they had that music in their voices, that vibrancy, that innate ability to entertain. Some had found themselves there, much like I had, from all corners of the globe. Some were from The Wirral. They were writers, cartoonists, musicians, designers, teachers, actors. They were stylish, generous, witty, kind, sexy, fun. You let me shake hands with The Revenge Tragedies, Friday’s Ghost, Hillary and the Democrats, Married to the Sea, Novice Mathematic, Hot Club de Paris, Hannah Peel, Thomas J. Speight, The Bottletop Millionaires, Theresa Stern. Musicians might continually thwart my romantic ambitions, but they more than compensate for it with such excellence. I beamed from the audience.

And with a bit of a cake, a bashed piñata and some retro heckles my party was over, and I’m back in London. Like Mad Max at the end of Beyond Thunderdome I let the children fly away to Tomorrow-morrow Land in their plane (or drive to a cottage in the Lakes), while I wander towards the horizon with some spears slung across my back and one shoulder pad.



London. This is where I stop with all this twee storytelling and get my flick-knife out.

I might have said at the top that I’m back here on good terms. I couldn’t have wished for a better reason to come home, so don’t cry for me. I’ve got one of the best toy boxes on telly to play with. And maybe this time around I’ll see a different side to that harsh, aloof and trendy girl that I don’t normally get on with. We’ll meet on a train home and forget why we fell out in the first place. Second chances, pedestal girls and all that.


x