Liverpool Stories
The stories on this site are not included in my book.
The tales are snapshots of my life in Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and the echo chamber of the Mersey Sound that in the sixties resonated around the planet like an acoustic Tsunami. The stories cover a period of 50 odd years and so they touch on every aspect of my life from the rites of passage to the passing of youth. I hope you enjoy them.
Wild thing - Back to nature
I have always been led to believe that cats are quite clever creatures. That was until I got a cat of my own. I say my own, but it was obtained at the request of my wife who let it be known that she would like a grey kitten, should one become available.
In all honesty I am not the greatest fan of felines. The fact is I am largely indifferent to their alleged charms. Perhaps the people who ran the cat shelter had divined that I was not wholly enamoured of the furry flea bags because before they would part with the ten week old grey kitten they put me through an interrogation procedure that would have been the envy of the Americans in Camp X-ray.
I can still recall the anxious faces of the two ladies who peered at me intently as they questioned me about my motives for wanting a cat. They behaved like profilers looking for a serial killer as they studied my face for tell tale signs that would in their eyes debar me from cat ownership. Fortunately for me I was accompanied by an acquaintance who was obviously potty about the bloody things.
They were eventually satisfied and I was soon in possession of tiny ball of fluff that had been rescued from a tree where it was being stoned by passing youths. The fact that at eight weeks of age the kitten had got itself into such a perilous state should have alerted me to the possibility that the kitten was of doubtful intelligence, but I was keen to get it home and enjoy the sight of my wife and child enjoying the company of the new arrival.
They were indeed delighted with the kitten, which my four year old son christened 'Whiskas', a name that has proved to be a constant source of embarrassment, especially when I take it to the vets and I have to introduce her by name! I mean, he might have called the damn thing Katrina the third or Shi-Tan-Smerrk which, is I believe, Native American for thing that craps a lot!
When the cat was about two years old it went missing, causing my son great distress as by that time Whiskas was his dedicated companion. Two days after we had alerted Cat Interpol I was on the way home from the school run when I spotted Whiskas. It was up a tree!
When I eventually coaxed it down I saw that the poor little so and so had been savaged by a dog. Quite probably by the scruffy Alsation with the matted hair that was circling behind the wire fence of a local garage cum scrap yard.
In spite of my long held indifference toward cats I was quite choked when I realised how frightened it must have been especially as my castration complex had gone into overdrive as I beheld the bloody dog trying furiously to emasculate me through several layers of sixteen gauge wire!
I couldn't help thinking that Whiskas only had seven lives left and that given her general lack of intelligence it wouldn't be long before it used up all nine of its alloted span.
Lest anybody think that I am too harsh in my assessment of Whiskas vis a vis her general stupidity let me draw attention to her infuriating inability to open the cat flap. It's true, she can't use the damned thing unless I stand there like a complete dope and open it with my foot! The other cat, Kate, which we brought home to keep Whiskas company, flies in and out of the cat flap like a winged Panther but Kitty no brains will stand in rain, hail and snow rather than push it open.
A consequence of her retarded attitude is that if we forget to put her out at night for her nocturnal toilet, she will often leave pungent presents for us in the most unlikely places.
As I write this I am freezing because earlier today Whiskas whizzed all over our cable set top box, tripping all the house fuses in the process and so turning out the pilot light in the boiler. The man from Worcester Bosch has just been to switch the boiler back on but we will have to wait until tomorrow for the cable man to come and restore the digital box. Cats, I've had 'em!
Whiskas is now sixteen and the chances are that I will peg out before the incontinent old bat!
The poor old thing was suffering and had to put to sleep today.
RIP Whiskas