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.
The gravedigger's ball - a requiem for the living in Liverpool
By
John Williams
I watch a lot of day time television, it's a 'perk' of semi retirement. As one would expect, much of the programming is designed for people like me, but that isn't to say that millions of viewers aren't in fact young, unemployed and/or bringing up a family. I wonder how they feel when they see advertisements, aimed at my age group, exhorting them to make sure they have enough invested in pension schemes to ensure a happy old age? That type of ad is on the lower end of a scale on which fear is the only index. Fear of growing old unloved, fear of dying in penury and just plain fear of dying.
The other day I was watching an old B Western. One scene was situated in a cemetery and as the camera dissolved in on the ashen features of the bereaved widow there was an advertising break. The first ad was about life insurance, followed by one for a chain of 'Golden Age' retirement homes and that was followed by, wouldn't you just know it, an invitation to select from a range of coffins!
The top of the range was a hardwood affair sporting more brass than Air Force One on nuclear alert, while the bottom of the range was little more than a reinforced shoe box. What is more, the cheapo job was held together by Pozidrive screws for quick assembly. Head 'em up and move 'em out! However, after my initial indignation subsided I had to admit to a sneaking admiration for the mid-priced Swedish pine number with a honey-glow wax finsh.
Of course this obsession with death is perfectly understandable, given that we live in a world liberally strewn with nuclear weapons, disease and politicians. John Donne, who as a young man wrote exquisite poetry about life, love and sensuality eventually took to sleeping in a shroud. Now there's a gap in the funeral market that the designer mob haven't spotted, yet. I mean, wouldn't you just die for the chance to be buried in a cute little Yves St Laurent number in that eternally fashionable hopsack?
My own grandmother, bless her, used to regularly scrutinise the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns of the Liverpool Echo. I would be sitting at her feet while she perused the Grim Reaper's shopping list, saying, in a shocked voice, things like,
"Oh God, Sarah Anne Bradshaw's passed away, and she was only seventy.
To me, as a robustly healthy ten year old, seventy was antiquity personified. I harbour an image of my Gran, set in biblical times, sitting in a tent and reading the latest tabloid papyrus, saying, in that same shocked tone,
" I see that poor Methusaleh feller has died, and he was still in his prime!"
Of course, I have a different perspective on age now, but I still think that we should abandon this obsession with the inevitable.
There is something obscene though in the way our fear of non-existence is exploited. I wonder if there is a conspiracy between the television producers, the ad men, the insurers and the undertakers? I picture them discussing how best to achieve the maximum profit from the minimum outlay.
" I know!" exclaims a teevee programmer happily, " Next Monday afternoon, we'll show a double repeat of Doctor Strangelove followed by Titanic! And in the breaks you can unload all the usual promotions!"
"Cool!" enthuses a twenty year old advertising executive, "And since Strangelove is as bald as a coot so we could even sneak in one for hair restorer!"
Cheers all round
"You could even slip one in for L'Oreal shampoo." purrs the Insurance man.
More cheers.
The undertaker's lugubrious features lighten to a leaden smile as he cackles,
"Yeah...I'm dead but I'm worth it!"
Loud laughter
Take my tip, video tape every afternoon's television and then watch it the next day, when you can fast forward through the ads without a backward glance. It's true that time flies, but only if you provide the wings.
"Shrinking away from death is something unhealthy and abnormal which robs the second half of life of its purpose." C.G. Jung