The scary glass challenge

'Liverpool One' is the collective noun that describes a major and impressive modern shopping mall development in the centre of Liverpool.

What impresses is certainly not the shops themselves, as they are the same designer-led chains that appear in any and all malls or larger retail parks anywhere in the UK, selling exactly the same stuff at exactly the same prices.  If people want these shops then fair enough, there they are - and all in one place, too.

However, what makes 'Liverpool One' genuinely different and truly exciting is the ingenious way they've blended well thought out modern architecture in with the large retail units.  I suspect that it's the kind of modern architecture that is hated by those stuck in the past and the trends of centuries ago, but for everybody else it is truly spectacular.

There are websites elsewhere that will describe 'Liverpool One' in more detail, but I want to concentrate on the excellence of what is called Chavasse Park.  Actually, Chavasse Park isn't really a park, but a disguised car-park.  What they've done is build a multi-storey car park and then stuck a load of grass and gardens to its top and sides. Brilliant.

A central part of the car-park is a huge deep well like granite based staircase that is modelled on the inside of a windmill.  It goes up (or down) for miles. Natural light for this stairwell comes from a glass structure at the very top. This glass structure is just part of the Chavasse Park garden.  Unsuspecting visitors will stroll around the gardens and notice a flying saucer-like structure that looks like it might be a snazzy seating area. They will stroll across the beginning of the structure, maybe casually looking down as they do. 

Suddenly they realise that what they are actually standing on is see-through glass.  Not only is it see-through glass, but below them is the seemingly bottomless circular staircase.  The effect of this realisation is similar to looking down through glass and realising one can see the bottom of the Grand Canyon in the distance miles below. Buttocks clench!  No matter how strong and safe the glass actually is (And it *is* strong and safe ... isn't it?), perception changes as soon as what's below can be seen. It immediately feels like any second now it will give way and the victim will plummet half a mile to their death.

Of course, by day it's actually quite hard to see through the glass in the brightness of sunlight, but by night with the electric light from the stairwell clearly pointing out the depth of the hole being stood over, it becomes even more frightening.

Humans deal with unsure footing by tensing their toes.  If the path is icy and slippery, then despite being trapped within socks and shoes, toes will curl and splay out like claws trying to grip.  You won't get this kind of brilliant scary fun at Blackpool Pleasure Beach, but you will at Liverpool One.

Now then.  I challenge anybody to walk around completing one full circuit on this glass looking down at the emptiness of what they are walking over, and not feel their toes curl. W'oah!  Try it and let me know.  

The number 27

It was a dark and slightly dismal evening when I needed to travel to somewhere in Toxteth.

The wonderful www.transportdirect.info told me to travel on the, gulp, the number 27.  This is a 'circular route' that involves going through Liverpool's Sheil Road.  Buses only go one way. The 26 goes anti-clockwise around Liverpool and through the Sheil Road, whilst clockwise journeys are undertaken by the, shudder, the, the number 27.

There have been comedy films during which the poor hard done by yet lovable characters on buses have been beset by a sequence of horrendous mishaps and mistakes, and yet all they wanted to do was just get home.  I am that lovable character, and all I wanted to do was to get to my destination.

The bus arrived on time, no problem. After a few stops it seemed to fill.

Then from the back seat came the first act of intimidation. Yep, the highly trebly tinny sound of rap music coming from some yob's mobile phone.  For some reason they always assume that everybody sitting on the bus wants to hear their selection of distorting music.  I guess they confuse the fact that nobody challenges them because they fear for their safety, with a unanimous vote of approval from every other passenger they are forcing to listen.

A bit further on, and it was time for the second act of intimidation.  One of the many unmuzzled attack dogs dragged its owner onto the bus.  Leaving the usual trail of drool from the heavy panting as it was self-choking on its chain, it dragged its man to a seat near the back.

What is it with the people of Liverpool?  Why don't they ever pick pretty dogs?  Every dog they own has to be one of the breeds that regularly kills and eats babies.  As these killer dogs come onto the buses people move away, squeezing themselves lower into their seats, clenching and praying that they'll get to leave the bus at their destination stop rather than in the back of an ambulance.  Yet, nobody ever says anything.  Shouldn't they be banned from the buses?

A further stop and on clambered another unmuzzled attack dog and act three of intimidation. This killing machine was dragging with it a very young woman.  As well as the drool and the panting from the self-choking this attack dog came with the additional noise of its claws skidding across the metal floor of the bus.

Suddenly the two dogs spied each other.  Reacting in the way they've been trained to by their owners, they instantly hated each other and urgently needed to kill. Really kill.

So, now there was a terrifying noise that drowned out the rap music - the sound of two very angry dogs barking and snarling at each other on the top of their voices.  Within the confines of a bus, this is loud.  Very loud.  Very frightening.  A scary fourth act of intimidation.  A child in a buggy near the front started screaming and crying uncontrollably and remained so doing for the rest of the journey despite the desperate attempts by its mother to console it.

The bus was stuck in traffic for most of this.  Unable to take any more, some people asked to get off, leaving the remainder braving it as they cowered and watched the two blood hungry dogs just about being held apart by their respective owners.

Liverpudlian attack dog owners never wash them, so the smell of filthy dog filled the air for the passengers that remained. Each of the owners was being ignored by their respective dogs, as they were being held on separate seats but still trying to get at each other.  The driver did ask that the dogs were taken off the seats, but as with any other authority figure in Liverpool, he was ignored. Pity the next poor unsuspecting passengers choosing to sit on the drool covered seats and getting that all over their clothes. Yuck!

The girl's dog continued its loud and constant ear-splitting barking until she eventually dragged it off at her stop.  At last there was silence, and a small timid looking woman who had been sitting in front of the seat the dog had been drooling on finally looked relieved from the terrifying ordeal.

No sooner had she started to relax than "thunk" onto the window right next to her broke an egg.  "Egging" is the hilarious act of intimidation that the feral teenagers subject Liverpudlian vehicles to when they've run out of bricks or stones.  Whilst the majority of the egg had splattered and dribbled back down the outside of the glass, splashes from it had worked their way in through an open window and landed on the woman's clothes.  She looked terrified.

The bus travelled and turned down a further road only to be met by a second "thunk", but on the other side.  Yes, a second egg, but the fifth act of intimidation.

Eventually the bus emptied of the man with the dog, the teenager with the music, the crying child, and for two stops all was silent.  Cue the singing drunks.

Yes, four very drunk, but, strangely for Scousers, not aggressive men got on.  They took it upon themselves to insist that passengers join them in a sing-a-long.  Those that refused were subjected to cajoling and, albeit light-hearted, insistence that should definitely join in and "stop being so fooking miserable like".

Mid singing one of them took a phone call.

For whatever reason it might be, most Liverpudlians must be hard of hearing.  Nearly all of them will shout when on the phone.  Drunks even more so.  Thus, at the top of his voice one of the 'entertainers' on the bus was holding a very drunken conversation by phone, whilst the others were still leading the singing on the top of theirs.

However much I would have liked to stay on board, I eventually found myself getting off at my destination.  This was my first ever journey on the, shudder, the number 27. Please please please don't make me do it again. 

I can't understand a bloody word they're saying.

I can't lie: communicating with my new neighbours is problematic.  I don't mean the little old lady next door, I mean everybody.  All of them.  The accent in North Liverpool is particularly strongly Scouse compared to other parts, and if I hover near to couples or groups of people engaged in jolly banter I can't understand a bloody word they are saying.

Yes, I'm the outsider, it's not their problem, it's mine. Yes, things are compounded by me being completely deaf in my left ear, but even with a conversation being carried on right next to my nicely functioning right ear, I can't work out what many of the words actually are.

On the plus side of course, they are speaking a form of English.  Having moved up from East London, where English is a minority language, it makes a pleasant and refreshing change to hear English spoken around me.  It's just so unfair that I can't understand it yet.

So, let's break this accent down.  Firstly, I notice that everybody sounds angry and pushy, and there's lots of phlegm (it must be the influence from the nearby Welsh people, or maybe it's the abundance of Dutch porn).  Some say it's a derivitive of Irish that got 'bastardised' by the heavy pollution of the 1700s and 1800s giving everybody a permanet nasal twang due the constant chronic blockages of the sinuses. I feel that might be a bit of a made up urban legend myself, but it's certainly true that to sound Scouse you need to block your nose whilst similtaneously trying to speak through it.

Whatever the truth of its origin is, I imagine even the phrase "I love you" is spat out with a snarl in Scouse (and followed by a punch in the mouth?).

Secondly, I notice that there are completely different frequency ranges used depending on how emotional the speaker is feeling.  Scouse women are particularly good at this, able to speak across 5 different octaves in one sentence.

Let me explain.  If a Scouse woman is old, or is speaking in a sexy or loved-up kind of a way then she will be making a deep throaty voice.  It comes out sounding strikingly similar to the tone of the roars of King Kong, just quieter.  The older a Scouse woman is, like my neighbour who is at least 100, the deeper they get.  Having said that, even teenage girls round here can get pretty low. Apparently.

It is the teenage Scouse female that can pitch up to that frequency that shatters wine glasses from 20 metres.  They can smoothly elevate from bass to soprano over 5 angry sentences.

Broadly speaking, the deep throaty voice is for when they are relaxed (or being sexy).  Then, the more agitated they are, the higher the tone becomes.  Most teenage Scouse females are angry and agitated most of the time, so very rarely do you hear the strange King Kong sound.  More typically it's a slightly elevated demanding whine.  It rapidly increases to the frequency range only audible by bats and dogs if the demands of the Scouse female are not being immediately met.

I've concluded that the reason why every other male in Liverpool is being dragged along by an out of control snarling and frothing at the mouth dangerous dog is because the dogs are being tortured by hundreds of female Scouse voices that only they can hear.  The Scouse male may even have picked these ugly and frightening animals (the dogs I mean, not the women) to alert them to exactly when it is that Scouse women are talking.

The Scouse male cannot compete with the Scouse female.  Although he will be equally angry and agitated (maybe because the Scouse female's voice is making his ears physically bleed and they hurt?), his tonal range is limited.  She can get far deeper than him, and definitely has the exclusive use of quite a few full high octaves that he can only dream of.  This disadvantage is why he will usually lose an argument to the screeching female.

Next, I notice that most commonly used words and phrases will be shortened to a single word and it has to end with an 'eee'. A 'Fish and Chips shop' is a 'chipeee' for example, whilst 'Electricity' is 'lecee' and an all day bus ticket is a 'zoneeee'.  They have weird words like 'barm' for things that every other part of the UK calls bread rolls and buns, which is even more confusing.

Add all this together, mix it with one poor bewildered isolated and lost Mr Lumpit in Liverpool, and you have a major issue. 

Why are there not workshops and courses designed to help settle newcomers into the Liverpudlian way?  I think we should be told! (in Queen's English please).

Liverpool's urban terrorists

I am probably putting myself in extreme danger by writing this entry about the terrorists that live in the urban regeneration area of Breckfield in North Liverpool (and I'm sure they are all over Liverpool, not just confined to Breckfield). They don't like people to speak out about them, and certainly they hound them and make their life a living hell by shouting or graffiting 'grass' and spitting at them or their family at the very least. More usually, of course, they punish their victims by causing damage with firebombs and excrement through letterboxes and bricks through the windows.

Mind you, these terrorists already make life a living hell for most of the ordinary folk in the area, but there's nothing that can be done to stop them, so people pretend they've not seen anything.  The police are powerless and no resources are available to be used trying to build cases against them.  Only when there's a death do they reluctantly come forward and try to gather evidence.

Here's a case in point:  One Friday afternoon the large heavy ironworks that make a street drain cover were prised from their road seating.  On passing, I mused that somebody stepping off the kerb could fall in and break their leg, and wondered what had caused the cover to disappear.  On turning the corner into the main busy street, I discovered why the iron grating had been removed. The front screen of a local cash machine had received a repeated pounding.  Flakes of its bullet-proof multi-layered reinforced thick glass had showered the pavement because of the obvious 10 or 12 direct blows it had sustained.  All this in broad daylight in a reasonably busy street.

A bit further on a row of cars had had their windows systematically stoved in, before the ironwork had been discarded.

The terrorists were of course a couple of bored 10 year olds on their way home from school.  They weren't trying to break into the cash machine, they just wanted to break it.  Why?  Because that's a fun thing to do.

Around these parts, children are brought up to disrespect anything and everything.  Usually, this is because they are feral, left to roam the streets by their parents who are far too busy watching TV, stoned or up the pub to care or to try to instill any sense of right or wrong.  That's assuming the parents actually have an idea about right or wrong in the first place. After all, these are the adults who buy ugly fighting dogs and take them out without a care and allow them to foul right in the middle of the pavements and leave it there.  They aren't going to care about the anti-social behaviour of their children, even if they can work out that what their children are doing is wrong.

At an early age the children are equipped with a football, an obligatory replica kit from one of the local teams, and shoved out of the door.  With no concern for their own safety or the safety of others, they'll kick the ball around the streets, in the path of oncoming cars, or bounce them off the walls of people's houses (even if there's a sign asking them to please not do it as it's disturbing sleeping children).  Most cars parked near street corners turned into makeshift pitches show the tell-tale signs of dents from football impressions.

When they are asked to stop they will bad mouth and verbally attack the residents asking them to stop.  They do this because this is the way of their parents.  As they get older, and with nobody keeping them in check, they become more cock-sure and far more aggressive. They start with petty crime, again unchecked and unstopped, which slowly becomes more serious crime.  They clock on that they are in control. They fear nobody; everybody fears them. That feels good.

On occasions they'll be given, or have stolen, money to go to a local chippie for their supper.  They'll be rude to the owner, climb all over his furniture, eat their food half on the premises and half in the immediate street, and chuck unwanted chips on the ground or throw them at passers by in a very intimidating and frightening way.  The entrance to a chippie that has been visited by these feral children is a minefield of gob and discarded food and wrappings for any normal customer wanting to enter.

The owners of these takeaways are too frightened to say anything to these terrorists.  Most of the takeaways in the area have broken or smashed windows from times when children's behaviour was challenged; the children came back later with a brick to show the adults who's boss.  Some shop windows even openly show the scars of gunfire.  The owners can't afford to replace the glass, and realise its a futile exercise anyway.  The children will just smash it all over again to remind them who's in charge.

These children love throwing things.  To them it's hilarious when one of their missiles breaks the window of a passing bus or causes a car driver to make an emergency manoeuvre. Glass is one of their favourite things to smash into tiny pieces.  There's not a pavement in North Liverpool that doesn't glisten from the fine remains of bottles or glasses they've destroyed.

The 'system' fails the ordinary folk whose lives are destroyed by these children.  Nothing can be done to stop this continuing, relentless and escalating terrorism.  Urban regeneration is too good for these kids and their parents.  They need immediate urban termination. 

The Spider and the Lambananas

This is La Princesse.  She's a spider.

There has been loads of press and TV coverage about her so I don't need to replay the actual story of what happened in Liverpool when the spider came to town.

However, I'd like to tell you about what I saw happening to the people of Liverpool during this time. Indeed, not just the people of Liverpool.  For us outsiders, or newbies, something happened too.

The spider isn't the first odd animal to capture the Scouse imagination.  Step back a number of years and say hello to the Superlambanana.

Not unsurprisingly a lamb and a banana joined together to make this highly expensive work of art (not really of course, as that would be very cruel).  Not unsurprisingly over a decade ago it was first greeted by locals with their customary "Wha da fook is darr" and there was a small outrage about the cost and the ridiculousness of the concept. 

Then time passed.  The interesting thing about Liverpudlians is that whilst they will hate forever anybody or anything from the outside that attacks, ridicules, or exposes their double standards, they will learn to love an oddity living amongst them (there's hope for me yet!). 

As time passed, the Superlambanana became a proper Scouser.  So much so that when it was threatened with removal or extinction there was a far louder outrage than when it first arrived, and this time people were chaining themselves to it to protect it.  (Yes, yes, yes, I know this was just a publicity stunt, but humour me!)

By 2008 with Liverpool being 'Capital of Culture' (although I'm pretty sure 75% of Liverpudlians haven't a clue what that phrase actually means), locals had warmed to oddities so much that when it was announced that there would suddenly be hundreds of lambananas, and people could name them and paint their themes on them and go on nature type trails to find them all, nobody batted an eyelid. They embraced the idea and enjoyed it completely.

Mothers were trekking round with their excited kids pulling them onward to make sure they visited each one, and tourists from all over the world joined in with what has, in the sober cold light of day, to be a most bizarre love affair.

When the lambananas were eventually rounded up and auctioned for charity a staggering £550,000 was raised, five times what had originally been estimated.

Separately the city spent something over £1.5 million to commission the Spider. Suddenly one morning it was just there, hanging from the side of a small tower block next to Lime Street station.

Immediately the spider was embraced by the locals, despite the heaviest days of rain, gusting winds and cold in modern times.  As she went walkabout, the streets were packed with more than came to see the Beatles or the homecoming of a certain successful football club.

The whole bizarre concept of the spider was brilliant.  What made it so was not only the way all the various authorities had worked together to make the event so successful, but the way the locals just embraced it.  Immediately she appeared they 'got it'. They understood it in a way that no other community could have done, and just joined in. 

They followed her, walked with her, laughed with her, cried with her, and they believed and revelled in her surreal magic for the moment in time.  We're in the middle of a global recession so there's little to smile about in these harsh times, yet everybody was electric with excitement and beaming smiles greeted every step she took.  I honestly don't believe this would have happened in any other city in the UK. 

True, after the weekend there were those chewing the fat moaning about the cost, maybe not seeing the money as an investment in worldwide marketing and publicity for the rejuvenating city of Liverpool, but mainly there were those who'd lived and completely enjoyed the great memories that were made that weekend when the spider came to the city. 

No, I got that wrong, I meant, "when Liverpool's very own spider came to visit her home and her loving family".

Where's the fish?

In London - yes, I know you're going to get bored reading my constant contrasts with London - but, in London, as in other parts of the UK, there are Fish and Chips shops.

Yes, I've seen a proper Fish and Chips shop since being in these parts. In Southport.  Like Fish and Chips shops in London it sold what can only be described as, well, Fish and Chips.

Chips are of course deep fried 'chipped' up potatoes.  I think we'd all agree on that.  It's pretty standard. With me so far?

Now then, let's get to the tricky part: 'Fish'.  Everywhere else outside of North Liverpool (or is it the whole of Liverpool?) the 'Fish' word in the phrase 'Fish and Chips' normally indicates a variety of, well, fish.  Entering a  'Fish and Chips' shop outside of North Liverpool and staring at the menu will lead the prospective customer to have to choose from maybe cod, plaice, skate, rock, haddock, scampi, or more. As a side issue there may even be cod roe or saveloys, sausages, meat pies, etc., for those who don't want actual fish with their chips.

A customer doesn't walk in and ask for 'fish' anymore than they walk into a newsagent and grunt 'newspaper' and then just stand there with a vacant expression.  They'll ask for a specific named newspaper (except for The Sun, of course).  Likewise, away from Liverpool a customer will ask for a named type of fish.  "Good morrow young sir, a large cod and chips if you please, Mr Fish and Chips shopkeep," might be a typical request.

London has takeaway food shops that just specialise in one style of take away.  A Fish and Chips shop is just that and nothing else.  So, with every other takeaway in North Liverpool declaring it was a Fish and Chips shop, and fancying a nice piece of skate for my supper, imagine my surprise to discover that actually I'd entered a Chinese takeaway.  

'Fish and Chips' in big bold letters on the outside; enter through the door, and it's a Chinese takeaway with a huge massive Chinese food menu on the wall.  Now then, in London, as a clue Chinese takeaways usually have the phrase 'Chinese' on the outside and sell Chinese food on the inside.  This seems a fair and just rule to me.  Liverpool's Fish and Chip shop fronts disguising Chinese takeaways is as bizarre as entering, say, McDonald's only to discover it is actually a beds and mattresses shop.  (Note to self: check out Liverpool's McDonald's to make sure they don't sell beds and mattresses).

To compound this confusion, these "Fish and Chips" shops in Liverpool very rarely have available any actual fish!  And when they do they have fish, they have no idea what it is. "I don't know, it's just fish," retorted one fellow looking at me as if I'd dared to question his parentage.  Again, I felt like I'd gone into a used car showroom and asked what make and model of cars were available and the salesman had retorted, "I don't know, they're just cars".

So then, here I am living next to the sea.  I can see the sea from the top of my road.  Yet, Fish and Chips shops don't have a selection of fish.  In London, an hour's drive from the nearest sea, Fish and Chips shops have a wide and wonderful range of different fish available for the discerning fish connoisseur.  Is there something I'm not understanding about this?

Buses with no windows

It is probably the right or duty of every newcomer to an area to excitedly view his new habitat.  What better way to view Liverpool than by mounting one of its fine buses and taking a ride. 

Ouch, a lot more expensive than London, but not to worry. Taking a window seat I prepared to look out on North Liverpool and the route into the centre of the city and soak up everything on offer.

Wait a minute! What the Feck? I just could not see out of the window properly.  It was all a strange blur.  I could see shapes, movement and colours, but it was like somebody had put thick sellotape over my eyes so I couldn't make out what anything actually was. Had my eyes gone wrong?  Was this the end?  Was I going blind on my first day in Liverpool?

Apparently not.  After a panicked investigation I discovered that this was a deliberate act on the part of the contractors of Merseytravel.

I can't quite make out if the purpose is to keep people on buses, confuse them so they have no idea when to get off, overshoot their stop and have to pay more to get a further bus to return them back to their correct stop, or maybe it's to try to stop them seeing how awful Liverpool actually is. One thing is for sure, there is no way to make out what is outside the bus or where you are, let alone enjoy the scenery. 

Maybe the purpose is to stop outsiders such as tourists from seeing how awful locals actually look.  

Well, of course it's none of these reasons is it?  It's actually all about making money through advertising, whilst not caring about the inconvenience or comfort of the passengers (I for one found not being able to see out of any window launched me into a form of travel sickness I'd not experienced since I was a very young child).  

Here's why it's impossible to see out of the windows: The outside of these buses have a huge mural on them. Typically these include pictures of the Beatles and blurb about Liverpool being the Capital of Culture or one of the football clubs, or, as you can see, an obscure advert for B & Q stores. 

These 'murals' are printed onto a sticky-backed plastic which is then stuck onto the entire bus, including over the windows, isolating those inside from the world they are journeying through.  

Brilliant!

Now I'll never know what Liverpool looks like.

Arrival in Anfield

Previously we heard about the very initial moments of entry to the new land of Liverpool for this migrant.  We discussed the elegance and wonder of the blue lights along the excellently redeveloped Edge Lane.  We then stopped and took a reality check at the vomit-worthy rows and rows of boarded-up derelict houses that stand (as they have for many many years) as a kick in the teeth for anybody feeling the state of bewilderment and charm of the previous blue light area.

Sadly, this desertion is typical in Liverpool's mainly neglected suburbs.  As we journeyed further into Liverpool heading to our Anfield destination it became apparent that Liverpool was shut.  Tight. 

It was in lock-down mode like it was under siege.  Every building was either showing the signs of heavy metal welded window boardings and replacements for doors, or had securely rolled down night-time shutters.  There was no sign of life.

Street lights are old fashioned and very dim.  The casual observer could be forgiven for thinking they are still gaslight.  In London, street lights are so powerful and designed to keep pavements lit to such a degree that it's not uncommon to see people working on their cars in their light.  However, Liverpool's inadequate lighting combined with its derelict or locked-down buildings leaves many streets with large eerie pockets of scary darkness.

And where were all the cars?  In London each side of every street has parked cars at night, leaving a single track in the middle of the road down which cars have to squeeze, sometimes having to wait and give way to oncoming traffic.  It's sometimes impossible to find a place to park.  Travelling through the streets of North Liverpool it was like somebody had stolen most of the parked cars.  Roads were navigable without having to give way to oncoming traffic.  Not that there was any.  In London, even in the suberb of East London, traffic never stops.

But, oh those potholes. Is there any North Liverpool road that has a single smooth surface?  Nope.

Shaken but certainly not stirred, in the very early hours of Wednesday morning this Londoner had arrived.  

Oh yes indeed, Lumpit is now in Liverpool.

The Edge Lane Experience

Right then.  This is it.  Time to leave London forever and head to Liverpool.  So then, first on the agenda was the van.  It was huge, but would everything fit in it? 

Well, after much huffing and puffing with a number of stout hearted volunteers, the van proved to be perfectly adequate and was packed and following some tender hugging 'goodbyes', it was hurtling up the M25 > M1 > M6 > M60 > M62. 

Travelling at night seemed a great idea at first.  However the lovely people at Europcar had decided to provide a van with an extra facility.  Maybe the idea behind this facility is to force the driver's adrenalin to pump furiously around their veins and keep them awake.  To explain, it probably helps to know that the M62 leading in to Liverpool is mainly without lighting.  There's not much traffic at night and it's very dark.

This was the ideal circumstance during which to discover the van's extra facility was the unannounced and unexpected random switching off of all the headlights.  Yep, one minute hurling along at 90, erm, I meant 70 miles an hour able to see the way ahead, the next second pitch black, no reflection from the cat's eyes, nothing.  Furious hitting of the stick with the light switches on worked every time to restore the lights within seconds, but nevertheless, trying to remember to keep going ahead rather than actually seeing where to go whilst also assaulting the light switches wasn't easy.  Maybe this was the spirit of Liverpool trying to stop me advancing upon it.  Was it to be my fate that I'd never actually make it?

Should I tell you about the terrible accident we had and my 12 weeks in hospital now?  Well, dear reader, I have to reveal that no such accident occurred.  

Indeed, it wasn't long before the lighting of the motorway returned and we were making our final approach into Liverpool.  A sign, probably put up by the locals who knew I was making a life changing decision to live amongst them, actually said 'Welcome to Liverpool'. I had arrived.

The M62 slowly morphs into an interesting road called Edge Lane.  Wow. The streets looked spotless and brand new.  And there were these sexy little blue lights everywhere as well as the bright and striking streetlights.  Now, what a brilliant impression that gives to tourists and visitors driving up this major gateway to the capital of culture.  It's actually quite spectacular.  

Passing under the Queen's Drive flyover we were greeted by a dazzling display of more blue lights, and the projection of welcoming words reminding the weary traveller that they are in Edge Lane and this is certainly Liverpool.  Most impressive were the words 'Edge Lane' lit up in blue on the trunks of various street lights.  Who knows what this looks like by day, but at 2 in the morning this is so very cool.

Hang on a minute. WTF?

As we travelled further forward stabbing into the heart of my new home town, the wondrous bathed in blue beauty gave way to derelict boarded up houses.  Hundreds of them.  Oh my lord, the real Liverpool was revealing itself.  

What an awful mess. 

And in an attempt to disguise this awful mess some loony-tune has decided to paint the boarding with inappropriate colours and even attempts at murals. 

Who on earth is responsible for this?

What on earth am I leaving behind?

Bank holiday weekend in my old 'manor' was shocking. I don't know whether coming to Liverpool will bring me into more of the same or if, in certain ways, I'm actually escaping from this awful mess just in the nick of time.

I'm heading to Liverpool tomorrow from East London. East London being the place where the 2012 Olympics will be held, my local town centre was one of a few areas scheduled to have a sort of 'handing over' event after the closing ceremony in Beijing, but it was cancelled. Instead of the town centre being the place where locals could come to watch a fun presentation of song and celebration, it was closed and guarded by police having become a crime scene.

Earlier in the morning, 'CJ', an 18 year old had become the 24th London teenager to die this year (and 50th in the last two years) as a result of what appears to be a gang related knife fight or assassination.

By the time I arrived to not watch the Olympic handover ceremony, the small area of railings adjacent to the large bus station (a bit like Queen's Square / Roe Street, but with more covering and not built on the side of a massive hill) had already started to fill with floral tributes.

Uncomfortably, I watched as different people turned up with more, and with hand-written notes. People? These were children. Mainly young girls. Clutching each other in public displays of grief about the reality of their world and the lad they knew for whatever reason they knew him - neighbour, relative, brother, mentor, gang leader, protector, who knows. I could only guess.

Whilst the girls had to try to deal with the emotions of the pointless tragedy, it was up to the group of lads who were stood nearer the bus station looking on, wearing stupid thick and inappropriate clothing for 24 degrees and beating sunshine, to start their bravado.

"Yeah mon you ain't ever believe it gunna be one of us innit," said one who looked about 10. The rest of the group, some on bmx bikes, continued with their disrespectful and disruptive peacock strutting routine of smoking in a no smoking area, leaving bikes splayed all over the ground in the way of people trying to board buses, standing on the seats, kicking at shelters, and constantly gobbing onto the pavement until there wasn't a dry slab to be seen. Talk continued in their strange street language about who was on their own list to be "stabbed up" as a revenge killing.

A police van delivering a change of shift scared them and they dispersed. A reminder, if it were needed, that these were just children playing their part in a stupid game that's gone really wrong. Whether or not they actually had good reason to run, who knows. However, this continued self-belief that they are so hard that they have to hide from police that haven't even noticed them is a public display of only part of the problem.

Nobody dares challenge or check these children. We are frightened of them. We lost control of the streets to them years ago. The bleeding heart liberals prosecute us if we try to defend ourselves, retake control of the streets or seek real justice. That's why their game of gangsters boils up into reality and children just keep dying. But, hey, this is London. Is it also Liverpool?

That was the week that was

Here we are then, the Friday before the last Bank Holiday Monday before Christmas and it was the last day of working (well, 'attending', I haven't bothered 'working' for weeks) with the renegade bunch in London that I will never see again.

We celebrated this with ribs and chicken and other munchies. Then it was all over. I staggered up the road with a box full of my personal effects (mainly toys) that had found their way to my place of work. This was my usual journey 'home from work' but it was for the last time. It felt sad, but also good, probably a bit like a funeral should.

I tried to take-in and remember the look and feel of the streets, the layout, the people walking by me, and strained to observe whatever I could that I might need to be able to recall for comparing and contrasting the streets of my new Liverpool home. To be true to my future witterings on this account of 'Lumpit in Liverpool' I needed to do my research. But what should I be seeing?

How difficult is it to try to observe what you see every day but don't actually see? Well, it's bloody difficult!

Anyway, annoyingly, it's time for more severe packing and the final boxing up of my London life this weekend. Liverpool will be mine on Tuesday.

Odd times, odds and ends

This is an odd week. A crazy kinda limbo. A week of feeling anxious yet happy yet exhausted.

It contains my last few days at work in London, hoping I can avoid screaming out what somebody, anybody, over the years should have screamed out to those who should be screamed at but never are. "Man, stay focussed, you might need a reference," I keep telling myself, "They never give people references if they've had a clip from an AK47 emptied into them."

The good news is the telephone company managed to get a Scottish gentleman to install the new phoneline in the Liverpool house, and the broadband company say their service should be up and running by the weekend. Ok, leaving it a bit fine, but I trust them. What could possibly go wrong? {Shudders}

I took on board some social media counselling from people who I've never met but are destined to now be my very near neighbours who I'll never meet. Apparently things I must never accidentally mention in Liverpool include the Conservatives, The Sun, and Boris Johnson.

It's fair to say that in local politics the Conservatives just don't figure. They poll less than anybody else ever. The world of Liverpool is controlled as it always has been by the Labour party, even though it was representatives of the Labour party who deliberately corrupted the city and threw its development back 30 years. Ok, maybe the main baddie wasn't really Labour at the time, but he's been more or less forgiven. That seems to be a trait for Scousers - they forgive locals all and any wrong doings, but never forgive 'outsiders' even if their crimes are lesser. Odd eh? Am I right or am I right?

A close second politically are the Liberal Democrats. I'm assuming this is only the result of protest votes. Nobody but the extremely wicked or disturbed supports the Conservatives. Indeed, I have a feeling that any known Conservative voters in Liverpool are likely to get a clip of an AK47 emptied into them.

Speaking of a clip of an AK47 being used up with extreme prejudice, that's the fate awaiting any newsagent in Liverpool trying to sell The Sun newspaper. I must be very careful and remember to never ask for one.

The Boris-phobia thing is interesting though. Boris is hated by a community that accepts and loves the Superlambanana. Work that one out, odd or what?

Thinking about moving, the plan

How is this deed to be done, I hear you ask. Ok, here's the thing about London. I live in a rented part furnished 1st floor flat in East London. This means that all my worldly goods are not so much furniture but mainly boys toys and stuff. 'Boys toys' being computers, TV, and that sort of thing. 'Stuff' being everything you keep but never ever look at, ever ever.

'Stuff' occupied one entire room, and included those keepsakes you keep for who's sake? Well, there were copies of magazines I'd written for, thousands of photos of people that I couldn't remember the names of, and a whole history of my life, including literally thousands of mainly unmarked cassette recordings of me and things I'd been up to (now that's another story).

The crazy thing about 'stuff' is that you keep it and never look at it. Then you die and somebody goes through all your 'stuff' tut tut tutting about how much 'stuff' you'd accumulated and moans about why you hadn't just thrown it all away.

The other danger that 'stuff' has associated with it is the 'I must keep that' drug. The 'I must keep that' drug works on your inner self. Maybe it's a smell that gets into your head via your nostril, or a bug that worms through your eyes, but it's guaranteed to work on you if you dare even start to open, sort and sift through 'stuff'. The horrible truth is that the only true way to deal with 'stuff' you've not even looked at for over ten years, maybe even twenty years, is to not open the boxes or containers but to put them directly into the dustbin.

So, that's what I've done. I now own absolutely nothing that dates back to before the 1990s.

One minor problem with the 'stuff' culling is that I think I've thrown my birth certificate away. But, hey, does anybody in Liverpool actually need a birth certificate?

Anyway, the master plan is to hire a transit van. This should be big enough to put the remaining boys toys and bits of furniture and clothes and personal effects into in order to head up that motorway to my destiny.

Ok, next issue is when exactly. I'm thinking the Tuesday after the Bank Holiday. That's when I'll leave London forever.

Throw me a line, mate?

Previously, I mentioned the need to have a phoneline installed. My tale ended with the feeling of satisfaction that I had been given a date when this would happen. Indeed, I'd also been given a time range of 1pm to 6pm. Without me asking, I'd also been told that I'd be called on my mobile about an hour or so before the engineer would turn up to do the business.

This phone call would be brilliant because I'd arranged to have somebody living in Maghull bribed. They were primed such that as soon as I got the nod, I'd call them and they would drive in their batmobile all the way to Anfield in time to save the day. They'd let the engineer in, and as Londoners say, bish, bash, bosh, the job would be done.

So then, come the day and nothing happens.

At some time a few moments before 6pm I called the telephone company. Maybe I'd get to speak to the nice lady in the call centre who had telephonically welcomed me to Liverpool.

Damn it. I routed through to Dehli. A well meaning gentleman who didn't seem to be able to access any records of anything related to telecommunications reassured me that the engineer could be working up to 9pm and so it was too early to say he'd not arrived.

9pm? Telephone engineers calling at your house at 9pm? I don't think so. Not even in this great new exciting world called Liverpool.

Anyway, the man from Maghull went and took a look. Was there maybe some indication that an engineer had attempted to gain access? Nope. Nothing.

Indeed, as I've previously mentioned, although the telephone company say there's never been a phoneline into the house, there are a couple of sockets. On the off chance that the phoneline had been made 'live', a phone was plugged in. Nope, the line was completely dead.

The next day, I tried the phone company again. Thank feck for that, I got somebody in the UK call centre. Apparently the engineer had not only attempted to call my mobile, but had also put a card through the door. Well, there were no missed calls, no voicemail, and there was not a card on the hallway floor of the house.

I put it to the call centre lady that the engineer was lying (I hope 'lying' is not a Scouse habit). She rechecked all the details of the address and my mobile number, apologised and promised that the engineer would definitely turn up for a brand new appointment some days hence.

However, I am tense. My buttocks are clenched. I'm not feeling good about this. Things are not running to plan. I need phone service so's I can order my broadband. The horror of moving into the house and spending a period of time with no internet is giving me cold sweats. Is this really what the future in Liverpool holds for me?

Communication Breakdown

What's the most important thing about a house you are moving in to? Is it the roof needing to be watertight? How about the gas or water utilities being switched on? Nope, as any true and honest nethead will tell you the most important thing ever is the internet connection.

Internet. This was my number one priority in moving to Liverpool. I'd already decided to wave goodbye to my previous and highly expensive ISP, and so had to hunt for a new one. For some really annoying reason you have to have a phoneline installed with a phone on it, if you want to access the internet. Well, of course you don't really have to have a phone on it, but you have to pay an extortionate amount each month for the phone service you probably don't really want whether you have a phone on it or not. That's got to be wrong, surely?

I can't remember the last time I actually used my home phone. I have an ample collection of bundled minutes on my mobile, and people who want me call me (on my mobile), they don't call a building I might or might not be in. That would be stupid. And then there's Skype and Google Talk and all that free stuff via the internet, so, what the heck is the fixed phone actually for? To be honest I give its number to people I don't actually want to speak to all that often like the bank and people I owe money.

Anyway, having examined all my options, I settled on a plan. I needed a phone installed, then I could ask a different company to supply broadband to it. Simple. I called the telephone company and explained I wanted 'goodbye' to my London phone on 1st September, but 'hello' to a phone in the house as soon as possible.

Strangely, the call centre operator I ended up speaking with was from Liverpool and not Dehli as I'd been psyched up for. She made encouraging noises when I explained I was relocating. I mentioned my fear that people won't understand my obscure accent, and she kindly reassured me that I sounded 'clear and precise' and I would love living in Liverpool. I believe at this point my correct Scouse comment should be, "I woz well made up wid dat".

However, the bad news was that the company would be charging me £1Million because there had never ever ever been a phoneline on the premises before. I protested that there had most certainly been a phoneline there before as bills had come for the previous occupier who had died and so been unable to pay them despite them being red and the accompanying letters sounding angry. Well, as far as they were concerned there had been such a long period of no phone on the premises that this was as good as there having never been a phone. And, in any case all the wires in the street may have been blown up by terrorists or something, so the huge mega-price stayed.

Anyway, a date was set for when the telephone man would call. I felt a little bit contented and so I relaxed for a while. Job done.

In the beginning...

It probably helps to start with some ground rules. And some background. And some explanations. And ... well, anything else that I suppose I have to use to set the scene.

Ok. Well, firstly, to protect the innocent (or guilty) there will be things that I will leave out when we stray into areas of my immediate personal relationships, family, or anything else I deem inappropriate for public discussion. That's fair isn't it? However, I won't deliberately lie to you, just 'withhold' some of the more fragile or delicate stuff. Still fair?

So then, who am I? Well, I'm very old, fat and balding, but trapped inside this Peter Griffin from Family Guy lookalike is a young minded adventurous geezer. Yeah, I really do look like Peter Griffin, but inside is the soul of Brian. Huh. Means nothing to you if you've never watched Family Guy! And I really am young minded. Honest. I work best with people half my age and share an interest in the music, TV and films they like. I can't help it, but I don't really do old things that people of my age do. I think I have a mental condition or something.

In truth, I have genuinely had quite an adventurous life, working on some most strange and wild projects that I can't really talk about (Don't you hate it when people put those kind of teasers in? I do. It drives me mad!), three failed marriages, lived comfortably, then lived like a squatter. I've made some major mistakes, critical cock-ups, and financially and emotionally paid the price, but that's long in the past. Mentally I'm fine, always have been, never better. I'm in physical working order apart from being strangely deaf in one ear. That might be a problem when trying to understand this new language I am to encounter called Scouse, but I'm perfectly fine in the other one.

For different economic reasons, which I won't labour on just yet, it makes sense to move to Liverpool. I will be moving into a tumble-down large terraced ('in need of...') house in Anfield, not far from the Football ground. This is a very useful location for me as I hate football.

I have a little bit of work to keep me going for a while, but will need to look for a more permanent job. Because of the scale of the outgoings being extremely low compared to my horrendously expensive situation when living in London, I can probably get small low paid or part time jobs rather than bother to properly use my extensive and brilliant skills in an all consuming mind-taxing environment. Still, we'll see, won't we?

I've visited Liverpool a few times and have stayed for very short periods in the house I am to move permanently to. So, I'm not a 100% virgin, if I'm honest. Indeed, I've travelled around and worked hither and thither for periods of time but always retained my London base and eventually returned to it.

Well, as of three weeks from now there will no longer be a place in London to return to. All my worldly goods and me will be in Liverpool. Be gentle with me!