Liverpool. Home of The Beatles. The Beatles Museum (yes of course there's a Beatles Museum) is literally a two minute walk from my semi-demi-luxury apartment's front door. Down in the resident's-only parking area I've noticed the numbers go from 24 to 172. What I mean is: 24 is at the right end of one section and then a few feet away from that, in the next section, the bay at the extreme left is numbered 172. I want to find the man or woman who came up with this number scheme and not ask any questions or introduce myself or posit a theory I just want to slap them. Some people's endeavours produce this effect in me very successfully. Actually it would be fun to go up to them and say “Hi, my name's Mic-” and just as their mouth was beginning to move into a polite smile configuration I could, half way through my name, lash out with my right palm and catch them across the left cheek. Have I thought this through too much? Mayhaps.
The Beatles. I am not a fan. I don't hate them. I will even hum along to Yellow Submarine. Once in a blue moon. If in the mood. Which I occasionally am. Now and then. But I'm not going to any f**king museum.
Those parking numbers have really put me in a mood.
I caught a cab home the other night. Chatty. That was the driver. One of the chatty ones. With a broad Liverpool accent. If it doesn't spring immediately to mind, think John Lennon times Kenny Everett to the power of Educating Rita. “Oh it used to be a shithole but they made an effort,” he says. Proud. And they did. Albert Dock transformed into a self-contained yuppie heaven with apartments and caffs and shops and even a branch of London's highly esteemed Tate Gallery. The Duke of Westminister (Her Maj's cousin and one of the wealthiest people in Britain and when I say wealthy I mean he owns Mayfair and not in the Monopoly way I mean he owns fricking Mayfair...and possibly Holland...) generously bought up most of the town centre some years ago and decided to give it a lick of paint. Had a soft spot for Liverpool it would seem. Maybe he likes The Beatles. His idea of a lick of paint was to build an entire shopping mall. But it's an outdoor shopping mall. Which simply means there's no roof. Just a lovely wide boulevard down the middle and escalators and stairs to different levels and indeed it manages not to feel claustrophobic or … well … like a mall. Clever.
The rest of the town centre is a bit of a shithole. Beyond the immediate centre it kinda gets better again. Doesn't feel as mugger-ish.
Although to be fair it has – wholly unexpectedly - some truly grand buildings gathered together in a small clutch very near the theatre where we're playing. They would not look out of place in Rome or Athens. St George's Hall boasts 16 Corinthian columns on its front portico which is rather a lot. Certainly more than ten. Or four. It's the sort of building for which the word 'imposing' was invented.
Liverpool also has the third-highest number of Heritage listed buildings in England. Although because of neglect many are on the Heritage At Risk register. In my more pessimistic moments I think this might be a fitting description for Britain writ large.
I've not been to the gay quarter yet and as my birthdays tick over I'm not so sure how many gay quarters I'll be visiting in future years. We now have so many apps on our phones it's too easy to order in. I had a man around yesterday who even vacuumed and scrubbed the flat. (Found him on one of the apps for submissive blokes. Certainly cheaper than getting a cleaner in.) And afterwards he even let me do him. Well... “let” isn't exactly how it went... anyhoo... he went away happy and my bins are empty.
Magda Szubanski was born here. Never knew that.
Like a wind that's always blowing, life is flowing
Move on.
