Liverpool has re-risen. Where to begin?

By William Corden

I’ve just returned from a two week trip to Merseyside in the UK, specifically to the Wirral.

To the place where the Beatles played  their gigs before they became a phenomenon, to the place that was the heartland of the industrial revolution, to the home of the European soccer champions , Liverpool F.C. and their shadowed rivals, the ever struggling Everton F.C.
As an aside, the man who still holds the record for the most goals scored in a single season played for Everton, a Mr Dixie Dean, he was  godfather to my older brother, sadly the both of them no longer with us.

To be honest I wasn’t looking forward to it, my last trip there was in 2003 some 22 years ago and it was, in the politest description I can come up with…a shithole.

Graffiti over every square inch of public property, abandoned factories, boarded up homes , massive crime problems, drugs and litter, litter, litter in every nook and cranny. The entire peninsula looked to be on its last legs.

But I’d been promising my sister a visit for many years and finally bit the bullet, knowing that the flight would be the human equivalent of sardines in a can and knowing that I would be sore in every joint by the time I got there.

Everybody knows that airline travel these days is a modified torture chamber, even “premium economy” isn’t much better than a Trailways bus but it’s the only practical way across the ocean. The seats are a marvel of engineering with some logistics expert figuring out a way to develop maximum payload while keeping their clients just this side of all out revolt.

The flight from Vancouver to Toronto had us packed in cheek by jowl but the leg from Toronto to Manchester achieved another level of body packing genius that would give Amazon a run for its money. I don’t know who came up with the latest idea for airline snacks but I can tell you that the packages that the snacks came in probably cost more than the product inside (roasted fava beans if you’re interested)

That said, I made it in one piece and stumbled into the Manchester air like I’d done a few rounds with Muhammad Ali.

The first thing I noticed is that it was much cleaner than last time, then I was struck by the friendly nature of the airport security staff , the exact opposite of the bullies in North American terminals.

In a trice we were in the car and on our way to Birkenhead, which is across the fabled River Mersey from Liverpool. 35 minutes later I am sitting in my sister’s living room and it’s like 22 years had passed like 22 minutes. We’re yapping and catching up, the phone is going constantly and they all call each other “Luv”, a really sweet cultural touchstone that sets Merseysiders apart from the rest of the world. People in Vancouver would be horrified if you called them “luv”

An easygoing agenda was set for the next two weeks. I would visit my Mum’s grave and my Dad’s urn; they’re in two separate cemeteries which is a pity, but who knows what distance is in the hereafter, let them stay where they are and heaven will work it out.

Once we paid our respects we turned to exploration of the places of my infancy and youth; what a revelation!

We passed the very spot where I was born, the house long since demolished, then on to the place where I was christened, the church still standing and then on to the hell hole where I was shaped into the scallywag I turned out to be, and still am today in many aspects.

The place, Ilchester Square, was infamous for its violence , drunkenness and thievery and would almost certainly have been classed as a no -go area in these times but now… it’s a park. Everything razed to the ground but in the middle was a huge pyre of wooden pallets, the biggest I’ve ever seen, being built for the upcoming November 5th bonfire celebrations. Although it’s a park you can still get the sense that it is a poverty-stricken area and I’m told that it’s rife with drugs and gang problems fuelled by unemployment… there’s simply no jobs for the unskilled and uneducated.

Next stop was downtown???? Birkenhead. Much better than it was , the graffiti problem seems to be under control, the shopping center , all but abandoned in the last visit, is clean and showing signs of re-birth. The people happy and unfailingly friendly, just a few druggies on show but no real sense of the danger that youtube would have you believe is round every corner.

Off to my old haunts, the laboratory I worked in at Port Sunlight when I left school, analysing Peanut oil and Animal Feed……. so glamourous

The wages were about $8 a week and you had to give your Mum $4 of that for your keep. Just subsistence wages that kept you off the streets. Unilever and Cammell Lairds the ship builder were the big economic drivers at that time and you could get a job easily with just a high school education. In fact they used to hire you and then send you on a day release educational program and pay for it into the bargain.

Of course the lab I worked at was now an abandoned factory , the dock that brought in peanuts from Africa now filled in and turned into yet another park.

Through the ghosts of world famous factories we drove until we came to the Roman City of Chester, which was throbbing with life, tourists by the thousand and bustling shops like I’ve not seen in Vancouver since pre-covid. I could easily settle in and live in Chester, you could spend an entire lifetime visiting places of interest and touching living history.

We passed a pub from which I received a lifetime ban in my errant youth, The Bear and Billet, I didn’t test the waters to see if the ban was still in effect but it was comforting to know that it had survived all these years without the favour of my business.

We took a tour of the Cathedral, which I could never have been bothered to do when I lived there, and for the first time in my life I got a sense of the colossal achievements of the church. To be able to build such monuments on such a scale was a miracle of organisation for the age … and here they are still standing , some parts looking like the stones were laid yesterday.

Chester done , now it’s time for a look at the new, ethereal stadium that Everton calls home. Already it has a nickname, “The Dixie Dock” in a nod to the aforementioned Dixie Dean,. To say that it is awesome is to understate the grandeur of this spaceship of a building, set upon what was once a waterfilled dock that hosted ships from all around the world.

We get a train to the closest station and then there’s a walk of about a mile and a half to get to ground zero.

In its heyday the Port of Liverpool handled ONE FIFTH of all the trade in the world and the walk from the train station to the stadium reminds us of the power it held in those colonial outposts.

You pass what was once the largest brick built warehouse in the world, hemmed in by brick walls twenty feet high and eight feet thick , this is the tobacco storage building and it’s mind stretching in its size.

How could so many people have been smoking to justify such a fantastic outlay of money? lots I guess.

It’s still a dirty and grimy hike but the history just floors you in its immensity. Slaves, Tobacco, Booze , Lumber, minerals all to the waiting maw of the industrial revolution’s inexhaustible appetite. Absolute fortunes made in the exploitation.

Now, most of that is gone and the entire district is being rejuvenated with warehouses converted to apartments or trendy, expensive restaurants. There don’t seem to be any shortage of people who want to be there, there were crowds all over the place.

Of course , once you get to the stadium itself, the shakedown starts, you aren’t even allowed a glimpse inside the place unless you fork out a King’s ransom, and the cost of a team sweater could keep an African family in food for a year.

Tickets are outrageously priced and yet you can’t buy one for love or money at the gate despite the opening price of about $115.. I wouldn’t pay that myself, not even to watch Messi and Renaldo , but then again I’m the world’s worst cheapskate.

We spent about an hour looking around and then made the very long hike back to Liverpool’s center, walking the streets of my youth brought up some new surreal feelings, especially when we walked to Mathew Street and the Cavern where JPG&R changed the musical world. A magic I had never even thought about before.

We stayed in the Town Center until evening fell and then there was a literal explosion of music coming from the bars dotted around the main station. All Irish themed, and balls to the wall good times being had by young and old alike. The bar we sat in was so noisy you couldn’t hear yourself think and there was a constant stream of ladies in their sixties piling in and dancing with whoever was available, all the young lads danced with them with sheer delight and fun.

You’d never see a mix of generations whooping it up like that in my home town, it just wouldn’t happen.

Everybody, but everybody, talks to you like you’ve been their friends all of your life. They don’t say “hello” they say “you alright lad?” no wonder the Beatles were so popular with this as their grounding. I could only speak to the couple sat next to us by using google translate on my cell phone, even though it was English to Scouse, but the message that came through was the Liverpool is THE place for party time and people come from all over to let their hair down. So much fun and so much better than Vegas.

So we’re getting hungry and we go to another, quieter, pub for a meal. It beggar’s belief, but there is no tipping when you get your food in the pub. You get the menu, pick out what you want and then go up to the counter to order and pay for it. What you see on the menu is what you pay and all that the waitress does is bring it to your table, not even a question of giving her a tip.

I like it a lot because tipping is out of control here.

The quality was first class with prices now much the same as in Canada, actually cheaper because of the no-tipping.

Home to the Wirral on the bus, everybody chatting to us and excited that I am visiting from Canada, nothing’s changed in the culture of the people but they do seem to be better off than they were on my last visit. It’s still grimy and battered but the human spirit there still shines on.

In my next essay I’ll tell you about the wealth of the other half of the Wirral where the aristocracy reigned, I visited the Royal Liverpool Golf club but there’s no way a peasant like meself is getting onto those hallowed greens.

Stay tuned.

 

P.S. the bonfire was lit prior to November 5th (just yesterday) due to a rumour that the council was going to dismantle it. Well the people dismantled it for them.