At Scouse in the World

People from Liverpool always bore outsiders with tales of their home town. Alas, poor reader, I am no exception.

But let's face it: there is nowt worse than a Man who is a Bore with a capital B. Are you a bore?  Do you talk about your homeland to oleaginous foreigners and chippy colonials who-don't-give -a-monkey's? Say, that's you in the corner! Notwithstanding, you are overseas, in another country; why fret about the past or from whence thee hailed? Have thee no future to think of, to plan for?  Yea, yea and double plus yea-yea!

Alas, poor reader, there is no escaping Liverpool in the World About Us. You hear the Beatles and see red Liverpool Football Club t-shirts everywhere in the World About Us. No complaints, mind. It's important for our City and We Its People. Liverpool. The winning brand (Ed. Note: WHINING?!?) Maybe that's what irks the outsider and the incomer. (CUE ACCENT) For there is something of the cosmos in the city, and us, it's long-suffering people. 

Growing up teenaged in London, with a Gringo for a Dad, the accent had a tendency to go walkabout. One minute Scouse, then hoity-toity Posh, or Mockney de-locution. It often confused. These days, most folks think me Australian, "from Queensland," reckoned a fucking, disgusting, expat, kiddie-fiddler-type from Melbourne (whom I once had the gross misfortune to meet in a seedy Bangkok dive-bar.) SIR, I've-never-been-to-Australia. Nonetheless, I'm a HUUUUUUUGE fan of the Aussie blaggers from the Sweeney (Patrick Mower and George Layton.) Like those two wild colonial boys, I'm a flash git with cavalier manners...but hasn't that always been the Liverpool n'all? 

As to Liverpool, I have not been home since June 2015. Even Pete Wylie, the aged punk and career busker, thinks that I need to come back. I told him (a) go see a doctor and get normal and (b) form "a Scouse Supergroup like Blind Faith". No Dogs. No Mancs. No Woolies. No Southerners. Professionals only. This strict criteria excludes folks like Julian Cope (some sort of Welshman) and OMD (Birkenhead = Woolly). In the role of Colonel Tom Parker to Wylie's Elvis, I suggested luring the Head boys (John and Mick) off the dole queue with a bag of fentanyl, and blagging that fella from Echo and the Bunnymen, the one who looks like a freaky-deaky creature off a Monster Munch packet (vocalist and sex symbol Ian McCulloch).

But what does "at Scouse in the World" truly mean? It denotes a certain set of characteristics unique to the people of Liverpool. One such example: bringing your own booze to the pub. Little brother and I used to do that in Notting Hill all-the-time. Why? Because we're Toxteth: I.E. skint 365 days of the year. Then me and the missus moved to Bangkok via HMG in October of 2003 and pretty soon I was doing much the same thing in the land of cheap drinks.  "Pikey behavior" said one groupie from the FCDO. There was, however, a rationale behind pursuing this domestic policy overseas. It took ages to get service at a packed-out pub/bar/nightclub in Bangkok (even if you were paying cash,) and forget leaving the credit card behind the bar--fraud is rife in Thailand, they'll add on a couple of bottles of whiskey to the tab and clone your card for good measure.

Another olde Liverpool custom: doing a runner on a bill in a restaurant. In the USA, this is known as "dine and dash", and, not surprisingly, we "learned this" off our Gringo Dad as feral children in Liverpool. One Friday night, he ran out of cash at the Mumtaz Indian restaurant and the joint didn't take checks without a "check guarantee card" (late fuckin' 1970s, innit?) Me and our kid were to leave the restaurant first and scarper, meeting Gringo Dad at the car (a Saab turbo) up on Hardman Street. But the plan was broken by divine intervention. There was a nightclub opposite the restaurant. It was late. 11+ pm. Too late for a pair of kids to be out with Gringo Dad! Noise. A scuffle broke outside. Loud, lairy voices. Crash. Bang. Wallop. A brick came through the window and landed on our table. There is a God! "This is outrageous!" snapped Gringo Dad at the major domo of the restaurant. We swiftly exited. And, with some heavenly assistance, and a dash of Gringo savvy, we had done our first runner on a restaurant (1978). 

Behold! There are greater truths than you can possibly imagine! Years later, in the early 1990s, broke ass in Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove, We The Scouse (me and our kid) decided to do a runner on our bacon and avocado sarnies and "cafe con leches" (a non-binary style coffee drink) at "Cafe Grove" on Portobello Lane. We got away Scot Free but, being comedians, returned the next day and did the very same thing after another round of bacon and avocado sarnies (and non-binary style coffees). A handy spot but "We The Scouse" took the piss.

Being a teenager from Liverpool in London was agony. The Dad from Gringolandia didn't bother to inform: Scousers were universally reviled as thieves and brigands in England. For example, I'd go to some posh party in Chelsea with me mates and the host, or hostess, would hear the accent and yelp, "What are YOU doing HERE?" If something later went missing at said party, and once all of the posh black kids had been eliminated from suspicion (or just plain eliminated,) the host, or hostess, would suggest, "What about that dirty faced SCOUSER? The one who looks kind'a foreign, like a YID or something?" Yes folks, yours truly, a whiny Scouse victim turning London Town upside down! 

Another custom I learned me friends and acquaintances: turning up unannounced at their place of residence and demanding a cup of tea. This rude and entitled Liverpool habit negs the English, especially Londoners. They don't complain, mind, if you turn up with booze and a big, fat, wrap of gak. That said, this practice does not export much. Expats in Bangkok would be shocked at the Scouser on the threshold, demanding, tea, booze, drugs; and the neurotic Rebs of Atlanta, already on the verge of yet-another 99th nervous breakdown, think you're some latter day redcoat, collecting Tea Tax or looking to get billeted. My advice to Scousers, down south and overseas, best to give notice, and call the daft twat up first to see if he/she has any tea. Or biscuits. 

Another point of confusion: saying "us" when one should say "I" or "me". For example, I call up posh bloke Nick round the corner in Notting Hill and ask what's he doing. Nothing. "Come out with us, then," I suggest. Posh Nick turns up in his wire-rimmed spectacles and threadbare tweed coat down the Finch's on the Lane. There's a bemused look on his well bred mug. "You said 'us', I thought there would be more of you?" No Posh Nick of Notting Hill (and Ladbroke Grove), it's "us", just me, myself and I. Now youse open up that big, fat, posh wallet and get US a pint of Young's ESB, ya daft fogey ponce.       

Reality is oppressive, suffering constant, but "We The Scouse" face it with good humor and wry, philosophical observations. Is this what grates other Englanders? Unsure. Perhaps it's our separatist identity or the rising inflection of our infamous accents? Then again, the Liverpool accent is NOT as uniform as TV shows like Bread and Brookside and the Boys from the Blackstuff make out. And why the "B" thing?  Like the Beatles. Is "B" a holy consonant, as in B for Bore, B for Beta? Errrrrmmmm... I dunno... But B with a capital B back to our accent. People from Liverpool can be posh. Take the late George Melly. When he identified himself as a Liverpudlian on a BBC TV show in the 20th Century, the host suggested that he had somehow lost his accent. Quick off the mark, Melly replied, "The Southeast of England does not have a monopoly on the middle classes." Good Time George shut down the Man from the Beeb... If only that boss line worked in my life...   

Not surprisingly, violence is just below the surface of our character. Blame the cocktail of Irish, Scots, Manx and Viking; not to mention the fusion of other worthy cultures from the commonwealth. Despite this mix, our regional character overrides the genetic splice. In short, we are laid back, or switched on. At home, down south, and overseas in South East Asia and North America, I have always tried to be as "laid back" as possible. The regional stereotype, however, persists. "If you are a Scouser, you are a thief," said a Yorkshireman in the Black Swan, an English themed pub in Bangkok. Nay lad: I should have "switched on" and robbed him BUT that would only confirm his pudding headed prejudices.

19 years on tour as an International Scouser with Everton shirt, socks, mug and towel. They're here now in North America and still in daily use. And its Everton shorts when I box instead of Muay Thai ones coz they wick. "Why don't you support Liverpool?" strangers ask. Then you have to explain that Everton is the original team of Liverpool and so on and so forth. The same conversations, the same moments of eternal reoccurrence. Silence really is golden. Perhaps it's best to keep one's gob shut when playing at Scouse in the World?  Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.