EACH Thursday I drive from my workplace in the middle of rural Cheshire to Liverpool to record a poem for BBC Radio Merseyside.
I usually park in Pall Mall or by the Walker and the Central Library and then walk through the city centre to Hanover Street where the Beeb has its new studios.
Without fail each Thursday night, as I walk, tired and bedraggled, between my car and the BBC, I am hassled by beggars, sometimes three or four times per journey, and by various nefarious gaggles of cadgers.
Sometimes, the beggar will give me the sob story about a sudden misfortune that has befallen him / her and if only I could contribute a quid or so for their bus fare home all would be OK.
Honestly. They must think I’ve just floated down the Mersey on a punnet of strawberries.

Usually I explain to the beggar / beggars that actually I am simply an impoverished working man trying to get home for his tea and that they are the third or fourth person to hassle for me for money that evening on my short walk across town.
Occasionally, I ask them how tedious do they imagine that can be. Though they might guess just from looking at my face.
I also tell them, 'sorry, I am skint', which is true. To be fair, most of the beggars accept this cheerfully enough.
They have no difficulty in believing that I am fed up and skint. A sizeable minority don’t though and there's the rub.
Like many people, I graft all week in a modestly paid job and rarely have any spare cash in the bank. I live permanently on an overdraft.
And I don’t want to be hassled for money by people who I am already, in all probability, supporting through the punitive taxes I have to pay.
The other night was a particularly bad example. A girl beggar approached me aggressively as I walked passed St George’s Hall.
I told her politely I had no money to spare and got a stream of abuse. Her scally pal, a lad of about 20 years, then tried to kick me.
He missed by a mile (being either pissed or off his head on drugs) but if he had connected with his foot, I'd have been sorely tempted to give him a slap.
A few months ago, in the same vicinity, I was approached by a rather older scally demanding money so he could look after my car, which I had parked near the Central Library on a (at that time of the evening) free parking slot. Bloody cheek.
That man stank like a brewery. I declined his kind offer. My car is such a rubbish one I can’t imagine anyone wanting to nick it.
It’s a battered Ford KA. Or a Ford Kack, as I call it.
I don’t know why I attract so many people who want to screw money out of me on the streets of central Liverpool. I certainly don’t look rich.
I always dress scruffily and most days, given my dishevelled appearance, I could easily pass for a beggar myself.
The trouble is this: I can’t help thinking that visitors to the city must be appalled by the tribes of beggars who patrol the streets.
You hear loads of PR bull**** from Merseyside Police about ‘Total Policing’ but why the hell doesn’t Chief Bizzie Hogan-Howe do something to clear up all the aggressive begging?
You also hear lots of bull**** about Liverpool’s 'tremendous renaissance' by people who choose to turn a blind eye to all the problems.
For instance, while ‘civic leaders’ are attending all sorts of PR-driven nonsense inside St George’s Hall, outside that impressive building the sinister mendicants lurk.
Now, people who genuinely love Liverpool, such as myself, realise that this city is about a lot more than modish restaurants, ‘boutique’ hotels, WAG-approved shopping, laughably 'aspirational lifestyles' and the building of skyscraper ‘apartments’ which hardly anyone can afford to buy anyway.
Liverpool is also about the poor and the broken-spirited; and about deranged poets and radical thinkers and crazy musicians chasing a dream.
Sadly, it's also about beggars. Lots of them.

***Anyway, as I was saying, I was on my way to record my weekly poem for BBC Radio Merseyside’s ‘Breakfast’ programme when the latest unruly beggar approached me.
The poem, incidentally, is broadcast at around 6.45am each Friday, so I am not sure how many people actually get to hear it.
This poem is a rhyming look at the week’s news and also covers some of the lighter items which feature on the ‘Breakfast’ show hosted by Simon O’Brien and Lucinda Moore.
Here is my poem which was broadcast today (Fri 18 May). It mentions Robbie Fowler, hence his name appears in the headline above.

“That was the week that …

The Culture Secretary came to heap praise
On Liverpool’s coming culture capital days.
But book-balancing never was this city’s speciality,
So civic leaders were hoping for Government charity.
But Tessa Jowell brought along no easy cash offers.
The Olympics in London had emptied her coffers.

Bad news for Wirral where there’s no jobs surfeit
- Unless you work for the council or health service! -
For the Burton’s biscuit factory is shrinking its staff
But it’s grabbed council loans – so it’ll have the last laugh.

This Moreton plant once made the mighty Wagon Wheel
Now they’ll roll elsewhere… under a cost-cutting deal
A chocolate wheel, once so big, you had to grin to get it in!
But now the diameter’s shrunk and it seems very thin.
And as Wirral officials join workers in job loss distress
The council looks a proper Charlie in a Chocolate Factory mess.

And Robbie Fowler bowed out in front of the Anfield crowd
No, he didn’t score – but you could tell he was proud.
To fans, he’s the hero they will always hail
But Rob will get no new contract, though
And we ‘think it best’ to draw a veil
Over his obscene gesture to Graeme Le Saux.

Everton finished sixth and bagged a Eufa cup spot
That didn’t stop David Moyes from throwing a strop
He was sent to the stands to atone for his sins
But there’s more to his tension than losses and wins.
‘Cos the Blues must decide where in future they belong
Can it really be in Kirkby? Many think that would be wrong.

But Kirkby folk want this regeneration - or they’ll be losers
A town centre full of Pound Shoppers and Bargain Boozers!
One man says there’s nowhere local left to buy his suits
And the big retailers have all gone – even the chemists’ Boots.

Next, its posh Chester that’s losing its sparkle and zest
And it, too, needs public money to look at its best;
Or so says the development agency for the North West.

And everywhere, it seems, the State is taking a hand
In sorting out broken families right across the land
And if you have violent children, it’s no longer your fault!
Parents suffer ‘domestic abuse’ – from their kids! – and assault!
So says the (yawn) Wirral Council Parenting Coordinator
It’s family problems all day long - and more to deal with later.

Away from human strife, the air is full of a sweet sound
Listen for it. At this time of year it’s all around.
We heard the full glory on ‘Breakfast’ yesterday
When Chris Watson recorded birds at dawn, having their say
Because birdsong is balm to the troubled human soul
And we’re all much better for hearing it, on the whole.
But not all who toil and spin through life’s mad rush
Can be blamed for not listening to the marvellous thrush.
Because as Betjeman once implied …
Of the people of Slough, in a caustic aside
’It’s not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio.’�

***** NB Don’t forget the Bards of New Brighton (poetry club, open to all) will meet at the Little Brighton Inn, Rowson Street, New Brighton, on Monday 4 June, starting at 8.30pm. There will also be a live music slot in among the poems. Anyoneinterested in good writing is most welcome to attend.

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