Saturday started cold, wet and windy. Members of four Morris sides were huddled under a small tree at the side of Willaston Green whilst the rain lashed down. H and I stayed in the car with the windows closed and the heater full on, listening to our favourite Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby tapes ...................
"Haven't we just done this?" I enquired. "You've just said that" he replied.
The bus arrived. Dozens of wet Morris people suddenly appeared from the nooks and crannies, and fought each other to get on. Clive took out his notebook, and discretely recorded the bus's serial number, noting the non-standard hub nuts for an RTL-class vehicle, with a loud tut.
Richard was pushed out of his car by his wife. "It's only a bus, for God's sake" she said with disgust.
Our guests for the weekend were Banchory Morris Men (Cotswold, and a lil' Border) and Raggie Morrisons (Ladies Clog), named after the Draper's shop that used to be on the site where stands Marks and Spencer's, Aberdeen
Banchory is a charming town, in the Scottish hills, with a high alluvial valley floor. Aberdeen, the Granite City, is the city with the highest natural radiation level, beaming out of that glistening stone. On the North Sea, with long sandy beaches, the Grampian mountains behind, and Britain's only league football pitch below sea level, it is a city of beauty.
Long John was quiet. Very quiet. There was no disputing it. Aberdeen was far further North than Bolton. To the Aberdonians, that makes him a Sou.... I'm sorry, I just can't say it.
H was wearing a kilt. He looked bloody ridiculous.
Why on earth are we taking them to Birkenhead and Liverpool? Our first stop was Birkenhead. Well not really stop. The driver insisted on keeping the vehicle in motion, to prevent the wheels from being knicked. The last improvement to Birkenhead town centre was made by the Luftwaffe. The teams strutted their funky stuff, whilst the public went about their shopping. "Keep moving" advised the Squire, "and keep counting your bells".
It is ironic that Wirral and Birkenhead was the home of smugglers and wreckers, and "Liverpul" was just a fishing village. Then in 1150 the monks of Birkenhead Priory started their ferry service across "the raging wild beast of a river", and now there are scallies on both sides of the Mersey.
After a brief alcohol break, we departed for Liverpool, via the tunnel under the Mersey. "I don't like tunnels" groaned Richard, who switched rapidly from alcohol-induced red to claustrophobia-induced green, faster than a set of traffic lights. "I think I'm going to be...." "Use the sick bag!" shouted Wobbly Bob. Richard stuck his face into the bag, and rapidly lost weight. "No, not the STICK bag!" shouted all.
Bill was asleep, dreaming of tunnels. Dreaming of the time that he led the largest breakout from Colditz. Suprising since, during the war, he was in Dad's Army putting lights on a nearby Seal colony, to pretend it was Liverpool. Many a Seal lost its life in the defence of Liverpool.
Exiting the tunnel, the bus was greeted by a large sign that said "Welcome to Liverpool". Well said it on the day it was erected. The same day that it was stolen. Replaced by the graffiti "Smash the Tories" and "Eric loves Trevor".
The first stop was an old courtyard somewere. No, I don't know where. Look, the only time I every see Liverpool is when it is being used as a background in apocalyptical movies. Our collectors were accosted by large men wearing "Support the Liverpool Dockers" badges, and were persuaded to donate the dosh to this cause. The finale of "Orange in Boom!" went well. Unfortunately, the courtyard became filled with smoke due do using a larger than average explosive, and would not clear, so we had to move on.
The bus whisked us off to the "Merseyside Trade Union, Community and Unemployed Resource Centre" which had its own pub, "The Flying Picket". A fire engine dashed by. The Union Cards of our musicians were checked on the way in. Pickets propped up the bar and stared at us. They soon noticed that we carried pick-axe handles. The mood changed. We were embraced as brothers. Soon we were swapping notes on the hardness of different woods, and the grand old days of the Miner's Strike, and what was that music they use in the Hovis advert?
Banchory asked who the bastard was, who wrote the hate mail about them on the internet, a few years back. H wore and embarrassed blank expression, then excused himself.
We were near China Town, where street signs were in English, and, presumably, Chinese. Funny, the Chinese words look the same on every sign. They probably say "Borrocks, you rousy lound eyes".
WARNING! PC PROTECTION CHIP FAILIURE!
Down down to the Pier Head and the Liver Building. Our visitors were disappointed in not being able to photograph the famous Liver Bird statues, that were currently unavailable, like much of the lead roofing.
Banchory did an exceeding long version of "Upton Hanky". One minute fifty seconds is normally enough for a dance with no chorii, but five minutes is downright masochism. Mersey did a very unusual "Vandals of Hammerwich". After completing the Lichfield hey, all the dancers ended up in their original positions. OK, well this is unusual for Mersey.
Once the Ferry had been recovered from the teenage joy riders, we boarded. The gangplank was dropped, and soon the loud rhythmic noise was coming out of the engine room. Yes, Richard was retching again.
Tonight is the Ceilidh. I warned the Scots that an English Ceilidh is nothing like a Scottish Ceilidh, but they are going anyway. H and I dashed back to the Manor to catch Bay Watch.
Aberdeen Food :
More Chips