LAST Tuesday was a good night. It started with a pub curry in the Claude in the company of Commuting Mitch, Greta, Runcorn Rita, Annette Kalms, Dr Gyggle, Litherland Lou and a few others.
Later we legged it across to the Ginny to catch the second half of the Recklessly Hellbent gig, where I was due to read a couple of my bitter and twisted poems, including my “Islington Rap" number, which includes the line …
“But I remember you when you were rich
You and the haircuts and that stuck-up bitch”.

That went down well with the audience, as did my rhyming poem, “Perch Rock pub: the first time ever I saw your walls”.
It’s about how I found comfort in that New Brighton hostelry the night after my dad died.
Well, I say it was appreciated, and it was by most folk, who applauded warmly (or politely at least), but one women, who is known to me and indeed a friend, chose to heckle!.
I think she was in no mood to hear a poem about the Perch, because she has a grouse with that esteemed institution.
Astonishingly, word reached me that she told people over on the other side of the pub that my dad was not dead at all. I can assure her he most certainly is … and I ought to know.
Why she heckled and said that, I don’t know, but I did not take offence.
I think, as the Irish are fond of saying, “drink had been taken”.
Anyway, it’s become a tradition when the Reckless Celtic folkies have done their final song at the Ginny, for a gang of us to rush down the hill to get into Hell’s Waiting Room before midnight for the last pint, and that’s exactly what we did last Tuesday, our group at that stage being joined by Duncan Kindlyface, Lady Di and Mini Marvin.
Before leaving the Ginny, I had a chat with a young fella in there called Clartsy, who is part of the growing army of regular readers who appreciate this blog's counter-cultural ethos.
A growing army which includes readers in the USA, I am glad to report...
Clartsy is a mate of the guy who runs It's The Taste sandwich bar in Rake Lane, Wallasey, which does the best coffee in Wirral (not that there is much competition).

THE following night (December 6) I went to the Dead Good Poets’ Society at the Everyman in Liverpool, expecting to read a couple of my latest poems.
But dear me, I didn’t get there early enough to get my name down to (ahem!) perform, so Instead I listened to the other poets.
Trouble is four of my friends, Dr Gyggle, Litherland Lou, Father David and Rosa, had turned up to hear me read, only to be disappointed. So I gave a private reading of my stuff for Father David and Lady Rosa in the Everyman Bistro instead. Pretentious? Moi?
The Dead Poets Society is a nice, supportive organisation for poets, but it only has an open floor once a month or so. Consequently, demand from local poets to perform far outstrips the opportunities available to them.
That’s a shame. The poetry scene in London is very different. Every single night of the week there are one or two poetry meetings somewhere in the city, and so there are plenty of spots for people to read their stuff.
Why isn’t that happening in Liverpool? Or in Wallasey for that matter? Maybe I will start my own poetry club in the back room of some cosy pub.

I’M on a mission to try out different pubs in Wallasey at the moment. It was only a matter of time before I went into the Margarine Arms, which is the closest thing to a middle class pub to be found anywhere in Wallasey and New Brighton.
It is a comfortable enough place, in a horse-brasses and lanterns sort of way, and it served excellent Draught Bass, which is a plus.
However, I discovered that if you order a steak pie dinner, the pie is – horror or horrors! – microwaved.
Tch, tch, don’t they know that you should never ‘nuke’ shortcrust pastry? To use the microwave on pastry is to destroy it.

LAST night I was back in Hell’s Waiting Room for a rambunctious evening with such regulars as Commuting Mitch, the Beast, Greta, Mini Marvin, Popstar Paul, Dame Lily, Billy Bustimes, Runcorn Rita and Konstable Kelvin.
It fair restored my good cheer following a wretched and very tiring week at work.
Runcorn Rita has a wonderfully fresh complexion and now I know why. She goes for a walk on New Brighton Prom almost every day.
The trouble is she regularly encounters people there with serious problems - broken-spirited folk, people who are miserable, and even suicidal ones, they all make a beeline for our Rita.
She talks to them and usually manages to convince them that life ain't too bad. Well, she probably knows a thing or two about coping with misery - after living in Runcorn for all those years.
While in the Waiting Room earlier this week a "new" face made another appearance – Blues Betty, who plays harmonica and sings very soulfully.
I got chatting to her and it turns out she was born locally … in the buildings where the donkeys of New Brighton sands used to be stabled.
She has had an adventurous life for many years, living in the Canary Islands and Barcelona.
On her return to Merseyside to settle however, she made a terrible mistake, and went to live in Crosby, where she nearly died of boredom. Well, you can imagine, can't you?
Everything is all right now, however, because she is back in New Brighton, land of brash, outrageous and free.
And this time she’s back for good.

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