Coming soon

Record of a Baffled Spirit: A Liverpool Childhood, traces the history of Liverpool from ancient Pangea, skims through the ‘Dark Ages’ and what followed before the arrival of two families, the Keytons and the Parrys. It’s an exploration of ‘slow time,’ impermanence, and the importance of memory. It’s a testament to the family—not just ours—and a culture. It’s a testament to Aintree.

Below is a short extract. I believe it's  called marketing.

 The most important feature of Ribblesdale Avenue was the brick power station at its end. Beyond that was ‘Wrights', a small haulage yard, a few apple trees, and the railway embankment. The power station had a decorative feature on either side of it: red brick protrusions, half an inch thick that allowed us access to the top. The building dominated much of our childhood. It doubled up as the Alamo, countless US Cavalry outposts, Spanish galleons, pirate ships, pill boxes against hard faced Germans, or creepily ferocious Japanese. We never ran out of ammunition for the top of the power station was deeply gravelled, which made excellent grapeshot. Sometimes we would carry up our own stones, when the conflict was serious or the Germans more hard-faced than usual. 

Our usual weapon was the invisible gun— two fingers and a whistling cluck; sometimes the invisible rifle, an extended right arm supported by the left, and two rigid fingers you sighted down. On each corner of the building were the machine gunners who’d erupt in loud staccato hiccups when the fighting got tough. We saw off Comanche, Apache, Arapaho; Mexicans charging across endless red plains; we saw off rustlers, Confederates, Japanese, SS, the Afrika corp. Our guns were most effective. The other side dying spectacular deaths, only to get up again after a decent interval, brush themselves down and continue the fight. It was a child’s Valhalla. 

When the battle was over, it was time for tea and then bed. And the following day, it started all over again.

How did our neighbours cope? They’d just fought World War II. We were small beer. Once, when pursuing a Mohawk Indian, I hurled a spear (a broomstick handle) which missed but smashed through our neighbour’s window. I was punished, the window fixed, and it was over. 

When I think of it now, our neighbours were all remarkable people bound together by remarkable events. All of them had either fought at sea or on land, and those too old to enlist had manned the anti-aircraft guns positioned on the railway embankment just behind the power station. For years after, we scavenged shells, cartridge cases, helmets and gasmasks discarded in bramble and fern. These became part of some quite surreal games of ‘cowboys and Indians’—the latter in gasmasks and feathers. As I remember they looked pretty fearsome, though their whooping was muffled.