Archive | July, 2018

Mersey Memories.

31 Jul

The River Mersey — one of Britain’s most famous waterways. It’s so big that it’s had a county named after it — Merseyside( though I’m sure most Liverpudlians still consider themselves as Lancastrians.) It’s so big, that when I first saw it as a kid, I thought its grey, choppy waves were the sea. I grew up in the land-locked county of Derbyshire so I didn’t get to see the real sea very often. It was on the Mersey that I first sailed on a large boat. In fact I travelled on the ferry ‘cross the Mersey, between Liverpool and Birkenhead, many times before Gerry Marsdon and his Pacemakers immortalised it in their hit song of 1964/65. From the mid-50’s to the late 60’s our family travelled on it every year. To me, when I was a small child, the ferry seemed like an enormous ship, whereas when I see photos of it now, I realize that it was just a glorified tug boat. In fact, in the 1960s, there were 3 ferries, sharing the task of carrying people across the wide river estaury. They were called : Mountwood, Woodchurch and Overchurch.

So why did this north midlands family visit Merseyside every year? Well, it all began in the early 1950s when I fell into a boating lake in Colwyn Bay. ( North Wales.) It’s my earliest memory. I think I was about 3 at the time. I had struck up a friendship with

another toddler, a little girl called Margaret. ( my first girlfriend?) We ran excitedly round the rim of the lake, sailing our toy yachts, until suddenly, I slipped and fell in. I still remember being under the water. It’s my earliest memory. Then I saw the blurred, reflected figure of my dad reaching towards me to drag me out. Out I came, shocked, shivering and sopping wet. It was then that my mum uttered the immortal words: ” Oh look, he’s still got his cap on!” She didn’t seem to appreciate that her son had nearly drowned! Well, the incident brought the two families together, as Margaret’s mum had run to the rescue as well. Actually, I think we were already a bit friendly because we were lodging at the same guest house. From then on, Margaret’s parents became my unofficial aunt and uncle. I always referred to them as Auntie Joyce and Uncle Bill. They lived in Wallasey, near Birkenhead, across the river from Liverpool. From that time on, we visited them every year. They sometimes came to see us but Uncle Bill was in a wheel chair, so it was much easier for us to do the travelling, especially as my dad worked on the railways and we could go on 5 free journeys a year. Neither family owned a car, something that was consodered a real luxury for most families in the 1950s.

The annual trip to Merseyside was one of the highlights of the year. We were lucky enough to have a seaside holiday as well but the trip to Liverpool was something different. Instead of sitting in deck-chairs, walking along piers or making sand castles, my sister and I now got a glimpse of a big city ( in fact 2 cities if you count Manchester on the way there), saw huge, glittering shops, ate at a restaurant and went on the aforementioned big boat. It was all very exciting and very different from our everyday life in the relatively small Derbyshire town of Chesterfield. Normally we never ate out as we couldn’t afford to. Eating out was for richer folk I thought. But as soon as we arrived at Liverpool Lime Street station we were whisked up to the top floor of Lewis’s, next door, and had a sit down meal served by uniformed waitresses. OK, it was only a department store cafe and we only had fish and chips, but to me at the time, it seemed very  grand. Even today I remember the waitresses’ frilly white pinafores and the bread that accompanied our meal being cut into neat, dainty triangles. To me, it seemed as if we were being dead “posh.”

Next came the walk through the big, busy city and then the queue to get on the ferry to cross the water. I remember crowds of people and being crammed on to the upper deck as the Liverpool shoreline gradually receded and  Birkenhead slowly came into sharper focus. This was pre- Beatles and pre-Gerry and the Pacemakers, so we had no pop music to accompany us across the water as happens on today’s tourist version of the Mersey ferry. It was a regular, run of the mill commuter service. I may be suffering from false memory syndrone but I seem to recall that we had to pay upon disembarking, an unusual arrangement, which meant queues again. Still it was all very thrilling and different for me at the time.

Even before the big city and the ferry, we had the excitement of the rail journey between Chesterfield and Liverpool. We caught 3 trains all pulled by steam locomotives, changing at Sheffield and Manchester. There were none of the “boring” diesel or electric units in the north in those days. It was the last great hurrah of the age of steam. Being an engine driver’s son, I was a keen trainspotter and here was a chance to spot all sorts of locomotives that I wouldn’t normally see back home. The last leg from Manchester to Liverpool was pulled by a tank engine and we were in carriages that had no corriders and no toilets. I remember my dad once having to hang my little sister out of the window because she was desperate for a wee ( when the train had stopped of course.)

The Liverpool trip got even more exciting as the 60s progressed. By now, I was a teenager and was getting heavily into pop music. In 1963 The Beatles suddenly exploded on to the scene, instantly dating the old rockers, crooners and trad jazz bands that had been dominating the charts. The Beatles of course hailed from Liverpool and all of a sudden it became the trendiest city in the country. Other Mersey groups and artists quickly followed in the Beatles’ powerful wake. Gerry and the Pacemakers had number 1 hits with their first 3 singles. Other hit- making Liverpool groups swiftly followed — Billy K Kramer and the Dakotas, the Big 3, The Swinging Blue Jeans, The Fourmost, The Searchers — just to name a few. The music press dubbed it : “The Mersey Beat.” It seemed that any half decent artist from Merseyside could jump on the bandwagon and enjoy national success. And I’ve not forgotten Cilla Black of course. Liverpool’s Cavern Club became one of the hottest music venues in the country. The Fab Four had played there regularly upon their return from Hamburg. This is where they had honed and polished their act before they got a recording contract and hit the big time.

As a moody adolescent, I might have been expected to be reluctant to get dragged along on a family visit with my  “old-fashioned”parents yet again, but once The Beatles and co had taken off, I didn’t need any persuading to go at all. I was going to the centre of the action. Liverpool was “where it’s at” as they used to say in the 60s. I had  teenage American penfriends in Cleveland and Pittsburgh whose letters were dominated by endless questions about John, Paul, George and Ringo.  Who was my favourite? When was their next record going to be released? Were they going to come to the States?I was their passport to the very heart of the pop music scene. Just for the record, my favourite “mop top” was George Harrison, closely followed by John Lennon. I remember one visit when I was about 15. It coincided with the release date of The Beatles’ latest single: ” Can’t Buy Me Love.” It went straight to Number 1 as so many fans had pre-ordered it. Margaret, now a 15 year old Beatles fan, had pre-ordered it too and she proudly played it to me on the afternoon of its first day of release. It was a genuine thrill. If I had not gone to Liverpool that day I would have had to wait several weeks to save up my pocket money to buy it for myself.( which I eventually did.)

It was no fluke that The Beatles and their contemparies hailed from a major port city such as Liverpool. Soul, Blues and R and B records arrived from America on the trans-Atlantic ships. Much of the Beatles’ early repertoire consisted of covers of American records they had acquired and which were not commonly available in the shops. I can just imagine Lennon, Harrison or McCartney carrying home their vinyl copies of “Twist and Shout” by the Isley Brothers or “Please Mr Postman” by The Marvalettes, as if they were precious trophies. Their city was more multi-cultural than many others, more open to new ideas and thus was a “melting-pot” of musical styles.

In it’s days as one of the great ports of the British Empire, many people passed through Liverpool on their way to the New Worlds of North America, Australia and New Zealand. Between 1830 and 1930 as many as 9 million people emigrated from here. So it was a city of farewells, tears and hopes. Unfortunately, Liverpool was also a major port for the notorious slave trade until slavery was finally banned in the British Empire in the 1830s. In past visits I have visited moving and absorbing exhibitions about emigration and slavery at Liverpool’s excellent and free Maritime Museum on the refurbished Albert Dock.  The museum also has very good archives for private research. I remember the hairs standing up on the back of my neck while researching with my then girlfriend, the drowning of her father in the South China  Seas while working as a ship’s engineer on a White Star Lines ship in the 1950’s. We found the actual record of the voyage and a list of the ship’s crew. D’s father’s name was there, alongside the chilling words: ” Lost at sea.” He had sadly died while trying to rescue a colleague who had fallen overboard off the west coast of Malaysia.

I’ve recently been back to Liverpool to visit some exhibitions. It’s become an important cultural centre with its galleries, theatres and museums, including a major outreach of the Tate. I’ve visited the city regularly over the years. To me, there always seems to be a bit of a buzz about the place. There is invariably a great atmosphere. Most people are friendly, approachable and humourous. It’s days as a great port are over and much of its traditional industries have died out. I’m sure there is still quite a bit of unemployment and poverty there. But there is  a great spirit to the place. It took on the right wing Thatcher government in the 1980s, electing a radical left wing council which virtually declared Merseyide as an independent Socialist Republic. It inevitably lost the fight against the all powerful government but even Mrs Thatcher recognised  Liverpool’s plight and gave it the sop of hosting one of Britain’s first “Garden Festivals” and sending, her minister, Michael Heseltine to Merseyside on a charm offensive. Maybe, even the ruthless “Iron Lady” formed a grudging admiration for the cheerful stoicism and fighting spirit of the Liverpudlians. Who knows?

Say “Liverpool” to people in a word association exercise, and by far the most common responses will be “The Beatles” and football. Both still draw in the crowds today. The city has 2 premier League football clubs — Everton and Liverpool FC– the blues and the reds. Both command a huge fan base and generate great passion and loyalty. This applies not just in Liverpool itself but across the nation and even throughout the world. As Liverpool FC has enjoyed the most success over the years it has attracted the largest number of fans. Many people in Africa, Asia and North America, walk around, proudly wearing the red shirt of Liverpool. Probably only Manchester United, Real Madrid and Barcelona rival them for world wide popularity. People are attracted to success so that they can extract a vicarious pleasure from it.  Liverpool FC has won the top English League, the FA Cup and even the European Cup ( Champions League) on numerous occasions. Back in the 60’s I adopted Liverpool as my second team. Chesterfield FC, my home town club were ( and always will be) my first love but they have perenially been stuck in the lower leagues of English football.  Peer pressure demanded that I support a top club. As most of my mates were pretending to be Manchester United fans even though they had nothing to do with Manchester, I decided to be different and eventually went for Liverpool, even though at the time of my choice they were actually in Division 2 ( now called the Championship.) With my backing they soon got promoted and quickly became one of the top teams in the country, and deadly rivals of Man Utd. I was impressed with Liverpool’s then manager, Bill Shankly and their energetic, attacking style of play. This penchant for Liverpool continued even when I went to college in Manchester, when I could easily have gone to see Best, Charlton and Law or the then stars of Manchester City. I only went to Anfield, the home of Liverpool FC ,once however.  It wasn’t an entirely comfortable experience. It was a top of the table clash against United and I travelled on the train from Manchester with my “Red Devils” supporting mates. We ended up in a pub before the match ( I was about 17 or 18 at the time). We were having a quiet drink, looking forward to the action, when the place was suddenly invaded by Liverpool fans. Ironically, considering I had travelled all that way to support his team, I got spat upon by a Liverpool fan and called “United scum!” The match itself was a tense 0-0 draw but I had to stay very quiet all the way through it because I was stuck in the middle of the away end, and had to endure relentless verbal abuse from the “Kop” opposite us.

I went to Merseyside recently to once again enjoy the culture, the architecture and above all the atmosphere. There are 2 impressive Cathedrals, Anglican and Roman Catholic, on opposite ends of the appropriately named “Hope Street”. Beautiful Georgian buildings grace the hillside above the centre. Three magnificant buildings, the “Three Graces” adorn the river front. They are the Port of Liverpool building, the Cunard Building and the Liver Building, topped by the famous mythical birds. Thanks to these, the Liverpool riverside had been appointed a World Heritage Site by the UN. Unfortunately recent adjacent , unattractive tower blocks have started to put this status at risk.

Tourism plays an increasingly important role in the city’s economy. The Beatles and the football have become the biggest draws. There are Beatles statues on the waterfront, Beatles taxi tours, Beatles open- top bus tours , a recreated Cavern club ( the original one was demolished) and a Beatles Experience museum. I think it’s over the top but plenty of tourists lap it all up. Yet, even I succumbed to the excellent ” John Lennon and Yoko Ono — Double Fantasy” exhibition at the Museum of Liverpool.  It was an absorbing 2 hour journey back into my youth, and was quite emotional at times. I never saw The Beatles live, unfortunately. The chance never came up. My wife Chris, saw them but didn’t hear a thing because of the constant screaming. The nearest I got to the “Mersey Sound”  was the Merseybeats, who were a support act to Traffic at a Chesterfield concert in 1966. However, I was a regular visiter to the city  when it was the “Mecca” of the pop music world. For a host of different reasons, I have been going back ever since. And it’s all thanks to a boating lake accident in a North Wales seaside resort.

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World Cup Fever.

22 Jul

I’m feeling a lot better now. Only a week ago I was still feeling the after-effects of a mid-summer fever that had contagiously spread throughout the nation. People in its grip could talk about little else. Their normal, everyday lives were obliterated. You see, as well as the country experiencing it’s longest drought and heat-wave in years, it was also the football World Cup finals in Russia and England had unexpectantly advanced to the semi-finals. This was their best result since the distant 1990, the year of Lineker’s goals, Gazza’s tears and Bobby Robson’s  dignified leadership.

Getting to the semis again was a dizzying achievement for a national football team which has perennially underachieved and disappointed at the finals of big tournemants. Only 2 years ago England had been bewitched and bemused by mighty Iceland at the European Nations Cup! At the end of that match our highly paid team of Premier League stars, didn’t know whether they were coming or going. For a country that had given the game  to the world and whose top League is supposed to be the richest and most exciting on the planet, it was a huge humiliation to lose to tiny Iceland. Yet another manager (the very decent Roy Hodgeson) was forced to fall on his sword. This year, for the Russian adventure, the English team was led by the relatively untried Gareth Southgate. He had been a stolid central defender for his country, and had been a moderately successful manager of Middlesbrough in the middle reaches of the Premier League. The hopes of the country were resting on the shoulders of a manager untried at senior international level and with only moderate achievements at club level. The omens were not good, but England sailed through their group and qualified for the finals in Russia. Even so, hopes were not high.  Our hapless teams had regularly stumbled at the highest level and our present team was young, relatively inexperienced at international level and lacked any proven, “world-class” players. Thus the expectations of the English nation were low. We had been too often let down. Of course, most Scots, Welsh and Northern Irish fans, whose teams had failed to qualify, looked forward to seeing the English lose and get humiliated, yet again.

It was therefore a pleasant surprise when the England team won their first 2 matches, albeit against fairly humble opposition ( Tunisia and Panama), scored a few goals and then actually won a previously dreaded penalty shootout in the last 16 match against the cynical, “pantomine villains” of Columbia. This was a great achievement and a big relief for Southgate who had famously missed a penalty in a shoot-out defeat 20 or so years earlier. Luckily, the reigning World Champions, Germany had been knocked out, victims of their own arrogance ( in the words of their manager), so we now faced Sweden in the quarter finals. Sweden was another country with a much smaller population than England. One of their best players, Larrson had just been released by Hull City, recently relegated to the second tier of English football. Thus England entered the game with confidence and won comfortably, although our goalie, Pickford had to make 2 or 3 brillient saves to keep the Swedes at bay. England won 2-0 and progressed to the dizzying heights of the World Cup semi- finals, where we would meet Croatia who had just knocked out the hosts. Croatia has a population of only 4 million whereas  the English part of the United Kingdom probably has about 40 to 50 million people. So it was another catch-weight contest.  The country was confident if not over-confident. As my mechanic said, when I took the car in for an oil change, “we should easily get past the Croats.”

By now, Word Cup fever had really taken hold of much of the country, whipped- up by the press, TV and social media. People were driving around with little , fluttering red and white flags of St George stuck to their cars. Large versions of the same English flag were hung from bedroom windows on housing estates up and down the country or flew on garden flag-poles. At times I was reminded of driving through the Unionist areas of Northern Ireland earlier in the year. Pubs were full to bursting with beer drinking fans who could not afford the long trip to Russia. Big screens were erected in town and city squares for wildly patriotic supporters to enjoy the England team’s march into the last 4. Cliches and hyperbole were now common place. My Facebook page was daily dominated by patriotic boasting and over- the- top predictions. Apparently, we were going to make history and football was “coming home”, a reference to our invention of  the world’s most popular game. A pop song by the Lightning Seeds — “Three Lions — Football’s Coming Home”, shot to the top of the charts. It seemed to be on everyone’s lips. ( It had originally been composed in 1996, when England had hosted the European Championships — so football was really coming home then.) The whole country seemed to have been taken over by World Cup mania. After the bitter divisions caused by the controversial Brexit vote ( Leavers and Remainers at each other’s throats), it seemed that the UK was now coming together( except for Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland that is!)

I felt excited but slightly uncomfortable at the same time. I am a football fan and wanted England to win. But I have always been wary of overt, exaggerated patriotism. Simple patriotism ( support for one’s country) can easily spill over into bellicose chauvinism and arrogance. It can quickly change from “our country is great” into “our country is better than others” or “other countries are rubbish.) Flag waving and patriotic songs have also been closely connected with wars in the past. I am particularly sensitive about this sort of thing at the moment because it seems to me that the vote  for the UK to leave the European Union had a lot to do with dislike and/or distrust of foreigners. The same red and white flag of St George has been adopted by parties on the far right of British politics who are openly anti-foreigner, anti-muslem and racist.  The irony is that Saint George was an Italian knight and the red cross on the white background was originally commandeered from the Italian city of Genoa. So the origins of our patron saint and national flag are not English. Come to think of it, the lions on the English team’s shirts are animal from Africa. On top of this, all the English tub- thumping and flag- waving is not good for the unity of the United Kingdom which only just survived a Scottish independence vote a few years ago. Hence, for a variety of reasons I approached the semi-final against Croatia with very mixed feelings.

I watched it of course. I had witnessed, via the TV, every important England World Cup match since 1966. I had seen our famous victory over West Germany at Wembley in a crowded French cafe in Biarritz. I was on my very first trip abroad with my school. To my bemusement, all the French people in the cafe were rooting for Germany. Weren’t the French our allies and the Germans the common enemy in the Second World War?  Anyway I saw Geoff Hurst’s hat-trick and Bobby Moore holding the Jules Rimet trophy aloft. Were the team of 2018 going to unbelievably repeat that famous feat? The country held its collectice breath. The media was at fever pitch and in full hyperbole mode.

But, of course it wasn’t to be. English World Cup fever, 2018 style came to a shuddering halt as the second Croatian goal arrived in the first part of extra time. The English team finally looked exhausted and beaten. Optimism rapidly drained away as if from a punctured balloon. England made a valiant attempt at a comeback in the second half of extra time after their final pep talk from the dignified Southgate. However they were now down to 10 men due to injuries and they were up against a World Class Croatian midfield marshalled by Luka Modric (of Real Madrid), which had taken a firm stranglehold over the match. Our brave team were defeated and were reduced to exhaustion and tears. Many fans in Russia and back home also succumbed to despair and tears. They had perhaps believed all the hype and were now crest- fallen.

I was disappointed and felt sorry for the team and the manager that had represented England so skilfully. Like many others, I was actually proud of them. However, being a football realist, I knew that little Croatia had a sprinkling of world class players and could easily match us in spirit, organisation, energy and determination. Being such a young country, born out of the late 1990’s break up of Yugoslavia, they too were extremely patriotic. Apparently, the Croatian team was motivated by the over-the-top boasting and dismissal of their chances in the British tabloid press. Croatia had been grossly under-estimated. Chris and I had had a lovely holiday in Croatia just a few weeks before, so as well as being disappointed for us, I could also be pleased for them. I never had more than a slight dose of the fever anyway. I was still able to do normal things and retain a sense of perspective. I was helped in this by Chris, my wife, who hates all sport, especially football. She refused to watch a ball being kicked. So I recovered from the defeat quite quickly and the fever of overt patriotism subsided throughout the country.

I watched the final where the Croatians dominated possession but lost 2-4 to the French with a bit of help from the referee. ( He awarded a highly debatable free kick and an equally dubious penalty to France.) So football isn’t coming home after all. It’s gone to France, our near neighbour, who we will be soon saying au revoir to. Life has gone back to more or less normal now that the World Cup has ended and the mid-summer “madness” has subsided. Feeling a lot better, we can now concentrate on the tennis, the cricket, the athletics and the golf, not to mention the fantastic Tour de France. Even for sports fans, there is potentially a lot of life beyond football. The only unfinished business to look forward to is Gareth Southgate’s knighthood, even though he didn’t quite equal the great Alf Ramsey!