The Plastic Scouser

 

Warm wax is wax until impressed by a seal and is at once transformed. The mind of a child is of a similar nature, impressions buried deep and long lasting. In the words of St Ignatius Loyola. ‘Give me a child until he is seven, and I will show you the man.’ This is true of cities too, Liverpool in particular taking on the role of Loyola. The weather for a start, raw winds and ocean-drenched rain, glowing cigarettes, cocky watchmen and braziers in freezing darkness, but above all the buildings. 

As a child, I’d taken my surroundings largely for granted, only becoming aware of their impact as I grew older. The buildings that shaped me reflect confidence and grandeur, imagination, romance, light and dark. Blackened or abrased clean, they tower over the pedestrian, creating chasms of shadow and unexpected shafts of light. The great pubs of Liverpool, many now sadly demolished, could have graced the mind of King Ludwig II of Bavaria, and all this I wandered through, holding the hand of our mum, absorbing the clatter and smell of the streets. 

What Liverpool lacked in litter was made up for by its odour: stale fruit and bodies, tobacco, and beer. Beer had a stronger smell than now, caught as you passed the open door of any pub. Along with the sharp, sweet fumes of cigarette and pipe was a heavy, sour smell—that of barrelled beer. 

Great buildings sculpt the mind, feed yet unknown thoughts in a way ring roads and urban sprawl can’t. The maligned slum terraces shared a similar visual poetry, the magic—dark though it was—replaced by central heating and soulless blocks in the sky.  

Liverpool was heavily bombed during the Second World War, and as late as the early sixties, you walked past old craters and open spaces where houses had been. 

As a child I’d walked a city that seemed complete and unchanging, one that would always be there, bombsites and all.  I breathed in the dark and grandiose, the gothic, fanciful and sometimes scary. I never factored in soot or that stone could be differently coloured. I never knew that bombsites might vanish, or great buildings knocked down leaving gaps like a prize-fighter’s grin. I never knew that town planners might dream of Dan Dare, a comic future in concrete and glass.

In the 1960's planners visualised metropolis and buildings the Luftwaffe missed were knocked down to be replaced by the tawdry. Mercifully they ran out of money, or it might have been worse. 

These are the memories I took with me to Swansea University, becoming in time that mocked creature, 'the plastic scouser.’ It was though, a slow process, being unable to let go of the city that had shaped me for better or worse. Wherever I go is matched against it; my heart quickens when I return and feel its pavements under my feet. Old landmarks drift into view, but now there are gaps and anomalies.

Cities grow and change, but some of the whimsy and grandeur has gone. Space is abused, new buildings squeezed in like unexpected guests; old landmarks have been obscured, streets built over. The Victorian and Edwardian vision has gone. Liverpool, though vibrant as ever, now has a techno-late-medieval vibe, higgledy-piggledy in places, buildings mushrooming from nowhere.  These things hit me in flashes as decades fly by. And now I’m feeling less of a ‘plastic scouser’ more a ghost from the past.

Marketing. Last excerpt from 

Out Now!

 In all its glory

Buy here. Quick, before you change your mind.

It’s easier writing fiction than telling the truth, but as the devil knows, one blurs into the other with remarkable ease. A Liverpool Childhood came with three problems— apart from living it—most of them coming from the abundance of photographs: copyright issues, permissions and in some cases payment; formatting headaches, and above all the embarrassing cost of the paperback. The eBook is priced at £5, still cheaper than a London pint; it also gives me a decent royalty. Normally, the paperback would be in the region of £10. But times have changed. 

Paper and printing costs have gone up. The book has an abundance of photographs in high resolution which have added further to the cost. And so, the paperback is an unbelievable, £25, which in the UK gives me a 70p royalty and nothing at all in other parts of the world. I know which one makes more sense, and which I’d recommend, but for those who prefer a real book, I wince and apologise. 

The contents shown below are interspersed with photos that didn’t make the final cut but are beauties in their own right. Many more photos in kindle and book.

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.

Worlds disappear

I wondered what to write about this week,  or whether I should bother. A new computer, transferring of files, learning to find my way round a spanking new 'Office' as opposed to the familiar but outdated 2003, posed problems, but on the basis of learning by doing, I ploughed on, exploring this and that like a rat in a maze. Blogging though seemed one step too many.

Then something turned up. Some pictures I thought I'd never ever find. Pictures of Blessed Sacrament Primary and Junior school where people started at five and left at fifteen. I went there at five, fell in love at seven and left at fifteen. When I went back many years later it had been knocked down and replaced with something more modern and with a few houses squeezed in where once there'd been a much larger playground. 

I tell you, I spent ages searching the internet trying to find a visual record of where I'd learnt to read and write, and in-between times played. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. On one of my trips to Liverpool I'd even called into the Church Presbytery hoping there might be a photograph or two tucked in a chasuble. The priest was sympathetic. He murmured a blessing. I left empty handed. 

And then yesterday - this. And it is exactly as I remembered, but you have to imagine red and tarnished bricks, slate roofs and hard grey surfaces where, if you fell, you knew about it. 

The school gates where you were deposited or picked up. I've seen more attractive prisons, but we liked it...in the main,

The Girls' Playground. The Boys' Playground was to the left, marked by a wall and a small exit point guarded by a teacher. Sometimes a nun.

Prefab classrooms at the other end of this playground. To the left, kids who had failed the 11+ were taught. The classroom to the right housed those preparing for the 11+ --- Grammar school, new bikes, leather satchels, and worldly success.

The Boys' Playground

A photo opportunity

And another photo opportunity: A First Communion.

Worlds disappear 

Like old computers

Life at sea

This blog began as a cyber-fire around which a very large and scattered family could sit, and, to mix metaphors, dip into.

This is a heartfelt rant from my cousin, Michael McDonald, in his own words: 'currently knocking round Newfoundland on a big, rusty, metal mental asylum....'

It's long but instructive and will leave you wanting to down a can or two of strong ale. Maybe five or six...ten, twelve... Over to you, Mike.


















Wellservicer Simulation

I'm frequently asked by friends and family back in Liverpool what it's like to be on this ship. So to allow them to share in the experience I have devised a little simulator. Now they, too, can have their very own offshore Wellservicer experience from the comfort of their own homes.

First of all, you need to simulate the unit, i.e. the room you'll be spending 12 hours a day in. Choose the smallest room in your house and divide it in two (a blanket or some bits of board should do the trick.) Half a typical small room is about the size of a typical unit. Remove anything remotely decorative or comfortable, and paint what’s left into this weird beige colour; throw in an off-cut from the 70's style Indian restaurant carpet knocking round the attic. Find yourself a metal desk, perhaps a filing cabinet too, and then a chair, although you first need to break the chair and attempt to fix it, just make sure you can't sit back and relax.

Set up a laptop and other random bits of electronics, install a phone that has no outside line, and give yourself an intermittent internet connection. Better still, have no internet at all. If you have intermittent internet, make sure all sites remotely interesting or useful are blocked by the company’s access policy, in fact just cut and paste the following screen as your pc screen saver screen.

The website you have attempted to access has been blocked.
This is in accordance with the Technip Internet Access policy.

After all this make sure you get fleeced good style by someone: any treats for yourself to take to your set up simulator room must come from an old cupboard; the sweets will not have seen the light of day for at least 14 months and all sweets must be unnervingly close to the sell by date. Write camp boss on a family members T shirt and get that person to sell you some sweets for seven times the price. This is important: make sure you have no other option.

Get them to also sell you a phone card that pertains to be for 2000 minutes but actually only giving 2 minutes 22 seconds. Remember this is your only possibility of contact with the outside world, but switch it off when you really , really, really need it.

keep all your important numbers on the wall, then spend 2 minutes keying in 24 numbers before dialing the one you actually want, whilst anxiously looking at the keypad hoping you inputted fast enough and correctly whilst looking at the number on the wall, then when you think you have cracked it, cut the phone dead and start again....do this several times... take more minutes off your phone card each time.

Now put a TV in the corner somewhere, so when you sit back, you can’t really see it. Hook up a video with a 5 minute recording of sky news and play over and over again , all day in fact; you must ensure the remote control does not match or control your particular TV set; open up the remote and bite the batteries so they contain teeth indents and place back, put black tape round the battery compartment to hold it together...ensure you have no other channels....pay thousands for the installation of the satellite and at yearly intervals have someone come round and dismantle the dish and put it back together. You must pay obscene amounts for this, but make sure it’s still not working. Shrug your shoulders and do not complain, just accept it.

So we have now our basic cabin and workspace, but the ambience is all wrong. Crank up the heat to an unbearable level, and install a gigantic air conditioner/fan in the room. Ensure it doesn't work. Allow it to switch on and blast air around very noisily, but make sure it isn't remotely cooling. Just outside of the room/unit, you need to create a source of noise. Perhaps 2 to 3 Hoovers might do the trick. This is mere background noise,

To accurately simulate the agonising blowing of the foghorn we regularly endure, you may need to borrow a Newfoundland seal and have it tortured at two minute intervals. Really, really hurt this seal, over and over again. In fact, put it in front of a megaphone as you do so.

You may close the door to soften the noises (a little), but if you do so, you must increase the heat greatly.

To simulate the PA system, simply turn on your radio, find a grainy piece of static, and put the volume to full blast at random intervals.

Ensure there is no intelligible content within.....get a recording of some Pole or Pilipino trying to make an announcement in broken English...make sure you can’t understand it...

If you choose to simulate dayshift, your hours are 6am to 6pm, with meals at 5.00am, 11.30am and 5.30pm: and nights opposite. Meals should consist of 9 year old steak from the back of the freezer, or anything from the pound shop that they cannot sell in Turkistan, and some mystery meats in wraps or anything hiding beneath a layer of cheese or powdered mash to cover up the poor quality. Cheese must be the processed cheap type, if you’re feeling particularly adventurous chop spam and sprinkle on top! (don't attempt to eat unless your teeth are in A1 condition.) Safest option is chips.

You are perfectly entitled to go outside at any time, but must wear luminous coveralls, a hardhat, gloves and safety glasses, given to you by a ‘safety man’. Find a member of the family to simulate him, one that has failed in every other walk of life, preferably someone that has had a few accidents, can talk down to people and disappears the first sign of trouble, and talks constant rubbish. You must ensure he is trained in the art of deflecting any responsibility or common sense, and likes the sound of his own voice! If you have such a person in your family - one who usually lives in the Far East somewhere with shady tendencies for young women.

Whilst outside listen to ugly men swear. (find a large family member that can take off a north east UK accent, preferably from the Newcastle area, and make sure they look particularly scary) All communication must be grumpy. Humour is only allowed in small and very bitter doses. Do not smile. Do not be nice. Do not talk about your emotions. Remind those around you how miserable conditions are. If you have a full blown conversation, ensure it is about mechanics, football or engineering or bits of pipe, and do not try and understand it...just nod and smile to them, they will eventually go away when the mystery meat curry is being served up in the galley.

To accurately simulate sleeping conditions, find a single bed too short to stretch out in. You may turn off some of the Hoovers, but keep the seal torture up. Remember every two minutes!

Every couple of nights, simulate the steward by having a friend open and close your door just as you’re nodding off, and sometimes turn the light on and off. Don't say much to him/her, or he will talk to you usually about sex or if in foreign waters "jiggy jiggy" Get your friend to ask you if you have any of them "decent" DVDs for him...or about if you know when the next port call is.

Here comes the key part of this simulation: it must last for weeks...no, months. In fact, when you begin, try not to even know how long it will last. Have a friend roll a dice in secret, and then have them tell you an entirely different, lower number. It is vital you begin your simulation believing it to last three weeks when in fact it will last six.

The good news: when you finish your Wellservicer ship simulation you are allowed - nay, obliged - to drink very heavily for weeks and weeks. DO NOT STOP.

And then, just when you've spent your final penny on your final bottle of Stella, crank up the Hoovers, borrow the seal, and plunge yourself into another month or two of sensory shutdown. You are now ready and primed to embrace the offshore existence aboard the Wellservicer.