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.
Set in Stone - My fifteen minutes of fame
By John Williams
Some time last May a man called Chris Bell, a self confessed Liverphile, wrote to me asking me if he could use my tale about my beloved aunt Alice in a stage production which he was directing and producing at an amateur theatre in the town of Stone in Staffordshire. Nothing feeds a writer's ego better than a diet of interest from other creatively minded people and so I readily agreed.
Last week I received an invitation to see the show, a multi-media celebration of the 60's in lyrics, dance, text and images called,'Walkin' back to happiness'. I was hooked, if only because as a teenager I had a thing for the husky voiced proto-diva Helen Shapiro. Once upon a time such an invitation would have been regretfully declined as I couldn't drive, but now that I have my wheels I was able, yesterday, to hit the highway, looking for adventure and whatever came my way...vroom vroom.
Yesterday morning the BBC news, which appears of late to be as sensational as the Sun newspaper, warned of floods and dangerous driving conditions. My heart sank, and the news that Al Quaida might trigger a nuclear strike somewhere in England did little to cheer me. With my customary calm I frantically e-mailed Chris to say I might not be able to make it as the conditions seemed to favour the lucky owners of hovercrafts and/or family sized arks. However, by midday, apart from a steady rainfall, the much publicised storms hadn't materialised and so I set off on my first adventure on England's motorways.
My wife had given me check list of things to take; my wallet, which I often forget and which contains my driving licence and the AA breakdown number; a mobile phone, which inexplicably became drained of battery power on my first and only attempt to emulate ET; and an umbrella! The reasoning was that I might have to wait at the roadside for a breakdown van. Optimism is a family trait it seems. The question of clean underwear in the event of an accident was taken as read. As it turned out my fellow motorists were spared the sight of a man struggling with a large and virulently coloured golf umbrella.
Everything went swimmingly until I hit junction 19 of the M6 and found the traffic at a complete standstill due to an accident. There is something quite eerie about being at a complete halt in the middle of the fast lane, but fortunately it only lasted for about half an hour and before too long I had arrived at Stone, via some of the prettiest forest lined roads I've ever seen. Not wanting to cut things fine I arrived four hours early.
I quickly discovered that the natives were friendly when one of them gave me lengthy instructions as to my finding a good parking spot, quite impervious to the rain that was steadily drenching his shirt. Thus it was I found myself parked outside a local pub located at the centre of a very pretty English market town, and within minutes I was sipping lemonade shandy, slowly as I had a lot of time on my hands, and playing pool. My partner, a man of such gigantic proportions that he would have looked at home wearing spangled tights and a mask, had a peculiar strategy for playing pool which was to engage his friend in interminable conversations about vintage Jaguar cars while I sat waiting for him to play a shot. When he did it was inevitably a good one and eventually I was a beaten contender. The question of how best to fill in the next three and a half hours loomed large and I was pathetically grateful when the barmaid pointed out that the library was open until eight o'clock.
It was, and what's more it had online computers. The charming assistant logged me on and within minutes I was getting my daily fix of e-mail. There I was in the middle of England replying to a letter from my old friend Sonia in Florida. Three hours to go.
Stone is a lovely place and is almost mythical in that it is so, so English. There isn't a Macdonald's, a K.F.C or Burger King in sight. What fast food there is, Chinese takeaways, pizzerias and the like look as though they have been there for centuries because they are housed not in purpose built buildings, but instead have blended into the background as they are lodged in very old premises. I was taken aback at the sight of a Kebab shop/pizzeria operating from what looked like an old cottage. Charming, and, for me, infinitely preferable to the neon and glass razzamatazz we have in our major cities.
I was feeling hungry and went back to the pub to peruse the menu. I was attracted to the 'Steak and Ale' pie, with its 'homemade' pastry crust, but I decided to play the tourist and shop around.
I walked down the pedestrianised street that ran almost the length of the town, expecting at any minute that Bob Cratchit would emerge from one of the ancient looking shops. I lingered at the Star of India, but decided that I could get a similar fare back home and instead perused the menu of the 'Thai Welcome' and mentally made it the front runner in the eating stakes, but it was closed at that time so I wondered into the Star inn. Impressed by the air of antiquity that pervaded the place I asked the manager how old it was. He replied that the original bar was built in 1751, and then, with a wry smile, informed me that the bar I was admiring was five years old.
Somewhat chastened by my own gullibility I sat down to study the menu. My attention was immediately drawn to the mouth watering description of a 'Beef and Ale' pie, with homemade crust. Mmmmm. A pound dearer than the other pub, but then the Star had a real coal fire and those antique ornaments must have cost a few bob. I decided to sample a Thai welcome, and I wasn't disappointed.
The staff were incredibly helpful and relieved me of my sodden coat. I couldn't help reflecting that the last time someone took my coat in a restaurant I never saw it again. A charming young lady, whose Thai name, she explained, was almost impossible to pronounce, and simply referred to herself as 'A', took my order and allowed me to take her photograph without any of the usual reluctance cum suspicion that most people exhibit.
The food was both visually attractive
and very tasty and so, feeling well fed and dry I was ready to make my way to Bibby's Sports and social club that housed the theatre group.
Chris Bell is the original genial host and he quickly made me welcome while introducing me to the cast. In the main they were men so later on it came as a surprise to see that the stage was almost always choc-a-bloc with stunning young women. Perhaps the phrase lock up your daughters automatically comes into play when Liverpudlians are at the gates. Had they only known that I was an icon for the moonlight blonde brigade they might have felt more relaxed.
The show itself was a complex progression through the sixties which made the most of multi-media techniques that enabled the audience to see the spine tingling 'I have a dream...' speech of Martin Luther King on a wide screen and then listen to a young lady with a fine singing voice seamlessly seguay into the Mama Cass's 'Dream a little dream of me'. That seamlessness characterised the evening's performance as the near infinite amount of triumphs and tragedies that was the sixties were replayed for us in a display of creative energy that simply amazing.
Somewhere amid the acid asides of Coronation Street's Ena Sharples and the images of that fateful day in Dallas an actor called Chris Burden lived up to his name because he took on the onerous task of narrating my somewhat sobering text as a counterpoint to the popular conception of the sixties as a decade of pop and bubble gum. When he finished the audience was so quiet that had one of them actually dropped a pin it would have precipitated mass heart attacks.
I wondered, briefly, if the contrast between the joyful ambiance of pop songs and the extract from ordinary life was too great, but then a lovely lady called Gerry Clenton, singing 'Liverpool Lullaby', initiated the exhilarating process of elevating the audience's spirits and with a minute they were listening to the whole cast singing a rousing rendition of 'You'll never walk alone'. With the images of the Apollo landing still fresh in our minds we most decidedly had lift off.
After reminding the audience of England's early successes in the Eurovision Song Contest, the compere introduced the man who wrote one of the successful songs and he sang his entry to his own guitar accompaniment. In terms of theatrical coups it was no contest.
My aunt Alice would have loved the event, not merely because it was great entertainment but because the whole production was a celebration of ordinary people, some of whom became famous, some who remained anonymous.
The theatre was full of 'ordinary' families and individuals, most of whom have rarely if ever realised that they too made a contribution to the most glamorous decade of the twentieth century. I suspect that part of Chris Bell's agenda was to remind them that without a public there can be no history or culture. This idea was, for me, underlined when Chris himself gave a marvelous bravura performance as the compere in the unforgettable nightclub scene in the film, 'Cabaret'.
With a compelling performance worthy of Joel Grey's original, Chris, with dazzling aplomb, reminded the audience that, ostensibly, everything was fine und dandy, but so convincing was his staged and chilling sincerity that I found myself darting glances side-stage to see if, as in the film, an unfortunate man was being assaulted by Brownshirted thugs. Simply marvellous.
Later, in the bar, I was warmly welcomed by those members of the cast I hadn't previously met. I was in the mood for a drink, and would have leapt at the offer of a late night session, but these people are not Bohemians or luvvies, they are hard working men and women who have full time jobs by day and at night become theatrical blacksmiths, forging some of the links that hold their community together. Geographically, Stone is at the heart of England, but I met no trace of flint there. Thank you one and all.