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.
Show me the way to go home
By
John Williams
I have stayed in some extraordinarily uncomfortable places in my time, from a tent erected during a freezing desert night, to a wooden hut on the edge of the Camargue, one of the largest marshes in Europe and home base to innumerable squadrons of mosquitoes.
However, quite the most dismal place I have ever encountered has to be the Nanford Guest House Oxford, where I had fetched up because I was bringing my son home from University for Christmas.
You see, I had made the rudimentary error of booking online without reading any of the reviews on the net. Fools rush in... My previous experience of Bed & Breakfast establishments had been restricted to Ireland, where my wife and myself regularly stayed with a Mrs England, yes, her name was England, in her beautifully kept farm house deep in the heart of the Emerald Isle. Breakfast there consisted of perfectly cured bacon, eggs, sausage, black and white pudding plus six types of bread!
Breakfast at the Nanford Guest House involved a choice of cereals and fresh fruit or a cooked breakfast. I opted for a 'full English' but after surveying the darkly saturated mushrooms lurking alongside a congealed egg and a single slice of streaky bacon, I simply got up and drove off to meet my son. Incidentally, When I say streaky bacon, I mean that it was streaked with so much wetly oozing salt that the fat was almost completely obscured.
Thus, a 'Full English' at the Nanford led to one very empty Englishman slumped at a sandwich bar.
I sensed that the Nanford was a bad deal the instant I arrived and saw a grumpy looking wretch poring over a computer, which was as far as I could discern was the only concession to modernity the place had ever made. The 'reception' area, a scruffy adjunct to the kitchen, resembled a poorly maintained junk shop.
I will say one thing in the Nanford's favour, the furniture in the bedroom was in keeping with the generally down at heel atmosphere because it looked as if it had been indiscriminately salvaged from Blitzed hovels. Even the toilet seat appeared to have been inspired by a guillotine as it would not stay upright!
The owner, with tongue no doubt rammed firmly in cheek, had described this cess pit as a 'period' dwelling. I can only imagine he meant the neolithic period!
In the bedroom there was a dresser, circa 1930, that was laughing at the curtains, which in turn were laughing at the chair while in the dining room tubular steel seats had insinuated themselves between the tacky reproduction antiques. It looked like a cross between a benefit office and an auction room.
Then there was the bed, which might have been custom made for Porgs, [persons of restricted growth], because although I am only average height I could distinctly feel the bottom edge of the bed against my heels whenever I slid down the glacial lumps that were cunningly disguised as pillows.
So, after a bad night's sleep I found myself in the dining room enjoying the company of a young Roumanian and his beautiful actress mother who was accompanying her son while he undertook an interview to do Politics and Economics at the University.
They told me that they were Orthodox Christians and so, because of the holy season, were unable to eat animal products. Now, as an ex-Catholic, I would normally be sympathetic to anybody fasting, but as I stared at the appalling excuse for a 'cooked' breakfast I couldn't help thinking they were bloody lucky they could only partake of jam-smeared butter-less bread washed down with orange juice. And this on a cold December morning!
As if my sojourn in the pits wasn't punishment enough the concierge eventually charged me for two nights! He is now saying that I had booked another night's stay for the tenth of December, and so when I 'failed' to turn up he charged me. He cannot offer any reason as to why I would need or even want to stay in his dump on that date when I have no reason at all to be there as my son has been home in Liverpool since the fourth of December. As if I would volunteer to stay in that purgatory twice!
Incidentally, I wouldn't have known about the double charging if I hadn't checked my bank statement this morning. When I phoned the proprietor today he told me point blank that he wasn't paying me back anything and that I should get my bank to cancel the payment to him.
The Natwest, of course, cannot cancel retrospectively as the money has already been paid out. However, they have agreed to pay me back so I am not out of pocket but the bank is because the proprietor has still got their cash. So, I would remind you all, especially travelers, to check your bank statements as mistakes are possible, but rectifying them could prove difficult if not not impossible. Failing that, read the reviews by googling 'Nanford hotel Oxford reviews' and have a bloody good laugh!