I was pretty busy yesterday. I dumped my photos to be printed, then I walked along to the pub. There were people waiting outside, for the doors were shut, despite it being gone half eleven. I rang the bell and Harold - landlord came to the door. He shooed the hoping customers away and let me in. Until one o'clock, I was washing new, lined glasses and loading the old ones into the boxes, then I went downstairs to help colleagues in the Cellar Bar. There were new pumps and a new till. The pumps were brilliant - we barely spilled a drop, I even managed to pull decent pints of Toby on a consistent basis. The tills are great too. they're a bit slow at the moment while we dither around the keyboard, but I'm sure they're going to be a lot quicker when we get used to them.
I was supposed to be on again at eight o'clock, so I arrived soon after half past seven, surprised to see the doors shut! So I rang the doorbell, and P. answered the door. "Been washing glasses?" I asked cheerfully.
"Are you working?" she asked curiously. she had spent the last two hours reading a paper, and brewing up for the beer pump fitting. P2 and Mike arrived, so we played I-Spy. We managed to open at about eight o'clock, and things didn't go too badly.
Yesterday really wasn't that much. I worked both sessions. What more can you say about that really. It cuts into the day. It makes you good money. It's a jolly good way of passing the time. It cuts into the time one has for writing one's latest literary creation.
This morning I was woken up by Harold phoning asking me to be in by quarter to eleven so I had to put my skates on for a five hour session. It was alright but I was glad when it was finished.
On Monday I made my way to Oxford Road Station from Sale. I had to wait around for a bit on Oxford Road, but that's not a difficult thing to do. I had a coffee and a few cigarettes, then I found the right platform. I chatted to someone I'd known at school while she waited for the Alty train. That came soon and the Liverpool train came very quickly. It's surprising how short the journey is: indeed it is only three quarters of an hour, and before I knew it, I was at Liverpool Lime Street, and being met by Lisa and Mike.
We wandered around the City for a bit. Then when all the shops were shutting, we caught the bus to Lisa's house. I don't think the way we walked to her house from the bus-stop was a particularly salubrious route, past deck access flats and boarded up windows. It isn't a very nice estate, although it's not as bad as I imagined from what Lisa's said*. I felt welcomed in her house, there were ten of us for dinner - her Mum and Dad, Lisa, three of her brothers, plus a parishioner who was staying for a few days, a ten month old foster child, plus Mike and myself. We sat around for ages, just chatting and relaxing, then we decided to hit the city.
We walked out the front door, only to find that it was absolutely chucking it down. Undeterred, we stepped out into the night, wearing no protection against the elements, trainers or pumps, jackets, water-holding trousers, and two umbrellas. We walked to the bus stop, which wasn't awfully far away, and, by the time that the bus came, which was pretty soon, we were completely soaked. I could feel my socks and shoes squelching; my jeans were twice their normal weight, my denim jacket was clinging to me - and I didn't care!
We messed around on the streets of Liverpool, fooling around. Lisa couldn't believe how quiet it was. I pointed out that it WAS Monday night. We looked into a couple of pubs before deciding on one on Mathew Street, a few doors down from The Cavern. This was Flanagan's Apple, and it seemed okay - had Irish Music playing all evening. When we were chucked out, we went for chips and then caught the bus home.
I fell asleep in front of a programme on Channel four about women hanging out their washing. I'm not surprised I fell asleep: it was stupid, it seemed really daft, or perhaps just sad, that their lives seemed to revolve around the laundry.
In the morning we lazed around telly watching. After lunch we went off for the bus. We were in a touch of a hurry, so needless to say, we saw three buses go past in the other direction; then one came in the right direction, but it wasn't going into the City Centre. Another went past on the other side, and eventually one came that was right. We got into Lime Street just in time for Mike's train. There was a loco alongside it and guess what it was called - University of Nottingham. We were debating whether to nick it!
Lisa and I went down into the City Centre. We walked around Cavern Walks, which I surmised is Liverpool's version of the Royal Exchange. The only thing of REAL interest was a sculpture supposedly of The Beatles. However John, Paul and George looked nothing like themselves. Ringo bore only a slight resemblance to himself.
After leaving there we walked down to the Albert Dock. It was a really gorgeous day, absolutely nice. It was sunny, with just a little breeze. We sat for a bit on the Waterside, then wandered around for a while. We thought we'd wander down to the Maritime Museum, and see if it was free. It wasn't free, but with our Union Cards we could get in for 50p, so we thought that we might as well jump at the chance. It was worth it, even though in an hour and a half, we didn't see anything like all of it. We concentrated on an exhibition about emigrants, and we went on a redundant pilot ship, as well as sundry other exhibitions.
I went into Alty during the day. Partly to buy a couple of records - the Pogues "Rum Sodomy and the Lash" which is dead ace, and Simply Red's "Men & Women", which, would ya believe it, I haven't played yet.
I also nipped into Loreto in order to give a talk to the Upper Sixth,or a handful of them, about life after school. It was funny walking around. It's funny because in a way nothing's really changed. Mrs M's still flying round in a panic; Mrs R is till being verbally abusive; Mr R's still telling me off. Having said that nothing's changed, I will then contradict that and say simply it's not the same place. I have finally and completed confirmed that my only ties with Loreto are the past, and people I knew there IN THE PAST.
I went out to Old Trafford. I said I was going with Ria. That was crap - Ria was in London, registering for her new term. I went alone, because nothing will stop me going to Old Trafford if I possibly can - and lack of people to go with is not a good reason. And I am sure that I made the right decision. Maybe the first half was frustrating. Maybe we should have scored more than the one goal that we did (Paul McGrath scored it), but we did score one, and let Hull score none. It was fairly entertaining, if just slightly annoying to see the lads miss the odd opportunity or two.
But it was more than made up for by the second half, which was dead ace lots of match narrative. Five nil was the final score, and I was more than satisfied. It wasn't a memorable match in many ways, but five-nil is an excellent scoreline, and we're almost guaranteed to go into the third round. I went away very happy: this was only marred by, when I was stood at the bus-stop, seeing Gregg from the pub on the 114. Mind you, he did smile at me, even if it was in a slightly mocking way. I also sat across the aisle from Simon J. on the 264. Funny how I used to fancy him.
Today was alright, marred only by the fact that a slight sniffle turned into a streaming cold as I walked out the house. Harold had rung me up to ask me to come in at short notice so I dashed out and spent a rather miserable 3½ hours trying not to sneeze into the beer. It's one thing working behind a desk with the sort of cold I have - that isn't particularly a drowsy one. Behind the bar, however, you're really conscious of the fact that you may offend your customers by appearing to be a a health hazard.
Yesterday was well good. It's dead ace to be dead grown up and in charge of what you yourself do. A couple of years back I would never been allowed to go to Old Trafford, the way I was feeling. I was all groggy and drug dependent, but they never even raised an eyebrow when I reminded them I was taking Matth. Mind you, it was completely mad getting there. Daddy took us in the car, round via Trafford Park. The place is even more chaotic than Gorse Hill. I wonder if any other place is brought so much to a standstill as North Trafford is by football.
We walked round to the Stretford end of the ground. Matth couldn't go in the Stretty End cos he's not a member; the Stretty End seats were shut (and it was barely passed two o'clock) so we had to go on the Stretford Paddock. We had to go in completely different doors, yards apart. I hjad a relatively painless entrance, going in the Adult Members section, but once inside I had to wait yonks for him to come in through the Junior non-Members Door.
We managed to get a reasonably good place to stand - nothing like as good as the front of the Stretty End, but we were high up, so we got a good bird's eye view, and by just a little leaning, it was possible to see the whole pitch. By kick off the ground appeared full, yet people were still coming in. Because Matth and I were standing near the gangway, people were being shifted from in front of us by police and stewards, which was pretty good from our point of view. I was convinced that the crowd was going to be well over fifty thousand; when it came up on the scoreboard that it was 47, 601, I was surprised, and, to be honest, I don't even believe it. If that was 47,601, where do they put the extra 8,000 when Liverpool come!
Long narrative on the match and player by player by analysis. No actual mention of the score but it seems we won.
The month ends with another long description of another visit to The Cliff training ground, and, on the 30 Septembe, a realisation that the summer was over.
* At the time Lisa's Dad was vicar in a particularly deprived area of Liverpool. The Estate was obviously designed by some idiot in an ivory tower, who never realised that lots of pretty/interesting dead-ends and so on were not helpful in combating what is now known as 'Streetcrime'
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