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 drummer boy - Beat the drum slowly
By John Williams
I suppose we all have regrets about things that really don't matter that much in life's grand design. One of my regrets is that in spite of being a member of the Cavern club in 1963 I have never seen a Beatle in the flesh. There must be camel drivers in barren deserts or divers in the depths of the Atlantic who have caught a glimpse of John, George, Paul or Ringo, but not me. I saw the Hollies, the Rolling Stones and other great bands, but I never saw the greatest band of all.
I saw my uncle John tonight. He was lying in his hospital bed, of a sudden frail, drifting in and out of consciousness, conserving his strength for a journey on that road which has no beginning and no end and a surface paved with silence.
He bought me the first adult book I ever owned, Charles Dicken's 'Great Expectations'. John lad, you were the one with great expectations because I was nine at the time and it was too difficult for me, but thank you anyway.
He was an Evertonian my uncle John, but the blues were just his first choice for he never once to my knowledge bad mouthed Liverpool FC. I'm glad he was sleepy over the weekend, not because his team lost to Liverpool, he would have got over that easily enough, but because he would have been profoundly disturbed and disgusted at the so called citizens of Liverpool who desecrated the Hillsborough Memorial, while their brave comrades in arms defiled the statue of the great Everton hero Dixie Dean.
John was a gentle man you see; old fashioned, believing in fair play and credit where credit is due. So different a breed of man from today's politicians and princes, our leaders and our role models, who place their hands on their hearts and lie through their teeth. Old fashioned, believing that black is black and white is white and both have equal right.
I remember the time a drunk was railing about black and asian people and turning to my uncle asked him the standard racist question as to whether John thought it was right for a white woman to marry a black man. John's reply stunned the bigot into silence,
"I would sooner she married a decent black man than a white wife beater"
My abiding memory of John is of him calling to see my mum or my gran and saying he was only staying a minute and then standing at the door drumming his fingers for ages as he chatted away. Mercifully it seems his final goodbye will not be as drawn out.
I said goodbye to him about seven hours ago full in the knowledge that I would never see him again and came home and buried myself in television. I had just finished watching the Sopranos, a programme that creates magic unknown to either Merlin or Freud in that it engages our sympathy for psycopathic killers who fulfill Oscar Wilde's definition of cynicism in that they know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Unable or unwilling to go to bed I surfed idly through the channels and saw Paul McCartney in concert. Like many Liverpool men of my age I was biased in favour of John Lennon, the politico with an acid wit, the quintessential Scouser. But as I watched McCartney transform his American audience of 2003 into carbon dated copies of the ecstatic crowds of the 60's my depression lifted. I saw families, couples, children and movie stars like Michael Douglas singing their hearts out for a man who had emblazoned on his tee shirt, and no doubt his soul, 'No more land mines'. I was proud of being a Scouser once again.
I remembered then that while John Lennon was winning the hearts and minds of adults as he raged against war, poverty and injustice Macca was winning the minds of the next generation when his cartoon frogs sang, 'And we'll all pull together'. Paul cried as he sang 'The long and winding road' and laughed as he sang 'She was just seventeen'. Good songs, like great people, never die.
02.27. April 23rd 2003