Love, Liverpool: an A to Z of Hope // Letter 4
Letter 4 is all about journeys; the leaving of Liverpool and the coming home. Once again there’s stories of special places, good times and love.
Letter 4: Goodbye, Liverpool...for now
Jump to: Audio stories // Picnic// Video stories // Written stories // Thank you
We start with a night out in Waterloo, thanks to Chloe Moss, as Helen Carter takes us through a life lived and loved with ‘The Volly’ at its heart.
Our picnic is a hamper of theatre relish from Gemma Bodinetz (our Artistic Director) with two special guest treats from actor David Morrissey and writer Jonathan Harvey.
From the Pier Head to Another Place, our audio stories come from Paula Cullinan, P. E. Holdsworth, Paula Hume and Gerard Langton.
You can listen to our audio stories here or download them later with the podcast platform of your choice. Read on too for a little something extra from Jonathan Harvey and more from this week’s writers.
A full transcript of our audio stories is available here.
As well as Jonathan Harvey’s favourite joke, we’ve a favourite recipe:
“I love egg and chips but often can’t have it as I am trying to stick to a low carb diet.
But… I do make celeriac chips instead, which are ‘almost’ as good as the real thing. And very easy to make.
Peel and cut your celeriac into chip shapes. Blanche them in boiling water for two minutes. Drain them, stick them in a pan and give them a few glugs of olive oil. Pour in a tablespoon of curry powder and stir it all up so the chips get nicely coated in both. Sprinkle with some salt and then whack ‘em (I’m turning into Jamie Oliver) into the oven for 35-40 minutes, spread out on a baking tray.
Serve them with fried egg and garden peas. And mint sauce.
I have to have mint sauce with a lot of things as it was something my Nan insisted on growing up. If there was space on the plate, pour mint sauce on. Even boring toast. Mint sauce. Bosh.”
Plus a tale of lime mousse from his childhood:
“I spent quite a bit of my childhood at my Nana’s flat in Wavertree, in a block of flats called Olive Mount Heights. Apart from dousing every meal we had very liberally with the mint sauce, my Nan was a very unadventurous cook. So I was very surprised one day when she informed me she’d got me a lime mousse for my pudding. After I finished my meal she told me to look in the fridge. I did, but I couldn’t find the lime mousse anywhere. She insisted it was in there, I insisted it wasn’t. Eventually she went in the fridge and pulled out a lime scented Glade air freshener gel… the sort with a white grid on the front and a lump of green jelly behind it, and put it on a plate for my pudding. My very own lime mousse. She was fuming when I refused to eat it.”
David Morrissey's favourite poem - Funny Sort of Bloke by Roger McGough
Have you heard the latest scandal
About 80-year old Mr. Brown?
He stole from Matron's handbag
Then hitchhiked into town.
Had a slap-up meal at the Wimpy
Then went to a film matinee
One of them sexy blue ones
We're not supposed to see.
Then he bought some jeans and a toupee
Spent the night in a pub
Then carried on til the early hours
Dancing in a club.
They caught him in the morning
Trying to board the London train
He tried to fight them off
But he's back here again.
They asked him if he'd be a good boy
He said he'd rather not
So they gave him a nice injection
And tied him up in his cot.
He died that very night
Apparently a stroke.
Kept saying: 'come out Death and fight'.
Funny sort of bloke.
This week we have a video story from Hannah Norris
Homecoming by Hannah Norris
Another assortment of Liverpool loveliness with this episode’s public submissions…
Unlock Liverpool by Helena Rimmer
They know us for our humour, our quick wit, our friendly smiles,
We can be the brunt of your joke, we’ll take it in our stride.
But don’t be surprised when we bite back, we give as good as we get,
We’ve got each other’s backs, and on that you can bet.
We’re a city of two halves. Are you a red or are you a blue?
Football is no laughing matter, now that is certainly true.
But there’s more to us than sport, we’ve got music, theatre, art.
All these things, they are so dear to us, we hold them in our heart.
We’ve got parks across the city that delight the eyes and ears.
They’re the places you go with family, generations have for years.
Simply go and walk your dog, feed the ducks, ride your bike.
Have a wander up the many paths, there’s not much to dislike.
We’ve got the bustle of the city, people come and people go,
But travel up the road, and you’ll see that things they start to slow.
Stand amongst the iron men at Crosby, and deeply breathe in all that sea air.
There’s no place quite like it, feel the wind blow through your hair.
You see there’s more to Liverpool than meets the eye, more to scousers than their reputation.
See their pride, their generosity, their strength, their conversation.
There is hope at the heart of Liverpool, and I don’t talk about a street.
I talk of the community, the unity found in all that you may meet.
Looking at the Liverpool Love Locks by Eloise Benn
It may be seven, but the sun still shines
Onto the tourist-trap known as the Albert Dock,
Each passer-by pausing to admire its lines,
Pieces of people left behind: their locks.
Clicking theirs into place I see Jane and John Doe,
Reading the metal and reciting its words,
Before joining hands for one powerful throw,
Believing that each and every syllable, the Mersey heard.
I watch in awe as the waves swallow the key
And the couple leave to continue their lives.
I find myself wondering if that will ever be me,
Are a stupid lock and key what I need to survive?
What happens to the keys that do not sink and instead return to land?
Buried in the sand, would it ruthlessly ruin all that was planned.
Crosby Beach by HJ Murphy
Sometimes, it is The Beach. Where sand meets sea, joggers pound, children scream, and dog-walkers roam. Where news crews and journalists rock up to do a three minute piece-to-camera whilst trying to analyse societal behaviour, not realising that what they are observing on The Beach is not a reflection of ‘society’ but of people, free to do as they are compelled once the fresh air finally hits their faces. Where daytrippers flit along the water's edge with growing concern for the unmoving metal bodies, static despite the rising tides. Where HM Coastguard keeps watch, closely…
Sometimes, it is Our Beach. Our shared space, where we go to make special memories, and ordinary memories. Together, marking poignant anniversaries and lighting candles to remember those who brought us here when we were kids, just as we now bring our own. Where we pushed Grom in her wheelchair and suddenly she was surrounded by ten strong, beautiful labradors whose eyes almost came up to her own. Where we bring our foreign friends to show off Our Beach, like Ro and Ernie who said our beach glass is the best they’ve ever seen even though realistically they must have just as impressive beach glass in Cape Cod. Where our all-female cycling gang rides bravely and boldly into the headwind, getting out there [to the pub] without caring what we look like. Where we don hi-viz and gardening gloves and pick up damned plastic, piece by piece by piece by piece that the tide has brought us as if a discarded gift.
Sometimes, it is My Beach. I know the undulations inside out [except when the sands shift, but then that just brings new adventures]. Where I lost my precious ring amongst a thousand shards of brick, and then found it again miraculously. My Beach gives back, and nourishes, and challenges, and fights back, and soothes. It is company when there is none, like right now during Covid-19. Those 100 beautiful, gnarly iron men really are earning their keep right now, offering a replacement hand to hold for those who have none or cannot grasp the living ones they long touch. I take comfort from knowing that the Beach I walk upon has not so very drastically changed from the Beach my grandparents and probably their own walked upon. And there, where I fell last year and scarred my knee for ever. It is still numb under the skin when I touch it.
This place is not only a sediment of the tides, but of our identity; our souls. Even when we are elsewhere, we know that it is always there for us//for solace, respite, anger-management, celebration, and companionship. No opening hours. No cocky watchman. No prior notice required. How beautiful that a place that asks so little gives us all whatever we need, without judgment, and with no questions asked.
*****
There was never any doubt where I would choose to write my love letter to Liverpool to. It would always be, will always be, Crosby Beach. This choppy, flitting stream of consciousness is reflective of our disjointed state right now. Unedited and free flowing, tidal.
To Liverpool, with Love by Dr. Cristina-Steliana Mihailovici
Liver birds wings
They’re flying high
Their wings are strong
They watching over horizon:
The sea at right,
The town at left,
Decades of power and respect.
A history of lives and hope’s
The power and the culture’s scouse,
Cathedrals’ bells,
The Beatles songs,
Protecting all.
The symbols and the Mersey’s keys
The sailors victory’s at seas,
Their treasures, loves and families.
Bella and Bertie still hear those
From Lusitania heroes
In Liverpool, this town of dreams
This town of legends
Written on their wings.
Memories of My Special Place in Liverpool by Pat Johnson
I was sixteen, had left school a few weeks earlier, a very naive young girl, and was so excited. I had been for my first interview and had been offered a job as a junior shipping clerk in the shipping firm Rea Ltd. I had been very impressed when a uniformed commissionaire took me to the manager’s office. Although I was nervous, it made me feel very special when he called me Miss Hayes.
I had never been to this part of town before, in fact had never been on an underground train so was fascinated by James Street Station. I got to know the area bounded by James Street, Castle Street, Water Street and The Goree Piazza so well. There were cocoa rooms converted to pubs on The Goree, where chains could be found in the cellars (not as we were told, to chain slaves) but were to tie down the beer barrels when the cellars were flooded. Finding my way around the area, I was fascinated when I found a pub called ‘The Slaughter House’ and one of the office boys sneaked me in to show me the hooks where the dead animals had hung, I thought it still smelt of blood and would never again go near the dark grimy street it was in.
Then there were the beautiful India Buildings. As we walked through the arcade we likened it to what it would feel like walking down Bond Street in London. Lovely exclusive boutiques, a posh camera shop. Even a shop selling cigars and pipes, a smoker’s paradise. We always lowered our voices, and tried to speak posh feeling we shouldn’t really be there. A very exclusive grocery shop was on the corner of India Building and Brunswick Street where wine bottles were displayed in the windows (not for the likes of us, we never ventured past the door) we were fascinated by The Cotton Exchange building where Cotton was auctioned. We admired the men in their very smart suits, some even wore bowlers. We thought they were Lords or very important people, we were only used to people wearing suits at funerals. Then there was our favourite butty shop ‘Normans’ we went there every day to get our sandwiches, and then have our walk around the area. Luncheon vouchers were given by some firms as a little perk to their employees. We could have spent them anywhere in town but we stuck to Norman’s but celebrated the fact we could now buy posh ham sandwiches and a bottle of lemonade as well.
There was a very nice restaurant at the side of India Buildings, it was in the basement, and there were stone steps leading down to the entrance. Our boss would sometimes take clients there. We looked through the door and dreamt one day we might have a meal there. (Funnily enough, a few years later I did go on a date, and was taken for a meal in the restaurant and was so disappointed, it was so ordinary, not special at all) There was also a tunnel leading to James Street station which we thought looked long and a bit scary. There were many small cafés on Castle Street serving morning coffee, as juniors we would sometimes have to take bills of ladling etc to other shipping firms. We sneaked off and met other office juniors in the cafés cafe’s (preferably boys) and many a romance had its beginnings there. Another adventure was taking the post to the large Post Office in India Buildings. I had only ever been in our small local post office, and was impressed with its size and the number of clerks working there. This was a popular duty, another chance to meet up with the boys again. Many little clandestine meetings took place. Whenever I left the office in Pacific Buildings (now known as 30 James Street) or approached it I always looked up at the first floor balcony and felt sad knowing it was from this balcony the news of the sinking of The Titanic was announced. Another claim to fame was the building itself was of the same design as New Scotland Yard and was often used as a substitute in films.
This area may not be well known to many people, but it has so much history and will always be my special place full of memories and the magic of my early days working in one of the greatest cities in the world.
A thank you from Liverpool actor Elliott Kingsley. If you are in a position to help us continue to create brilliant, inspiring & entertaining work, help us continue to work with our communities & develop talent and young people then please do consider a donation, we'd be so grateful. You can find out more about how to support us here.
We hope you enjoyed this weeks letter, see you soon.
Love,
Liverpool
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