DESPITE all the snares and tares of wickedness abounding at this time, not to mention all the greed, stupidity, bullying and despair that are rife, I’m still tempted to observe: “Ain’t life grand!�
Well, there’s something about living in Wallasey that lifts my spirits anyhow.
Even though it’s not been much of a summer so far, me and Posh Boots have been out and about enjoying ourselves in the splendid old borough – and even going to pubs we rarely used to visit.

One inn of New Brighton that’s very good and well run (apart from the cramped, smelly and inadequate men’s bogs), is the Telling Pole (oh, work it out for yourselves).
As Morrissey might put it, I’ve shared a few greased beers in there in recent weeks, at different times, with people as diverse as Commuting Mitch, his missus Greta, her brother Corky, the Patriarch Narkus, Duncan Kindlyface and Rocky and Melony.
Talking of Corky and Duncan, I have in the fairly recently past sent to both of them recordings by the mighty singer-songwriter Roddy Frame. But neither was at all impressed. Musicians themselves, they particularly hated Mr Frame’s “Surf� album – a hauntingly beautiful and poetic collection of ballads.
Actually, they told me the album was “whiny, miserable “sh**�.
So are me and Posh Boots the only Roddy Frame fans left on Merseyside? I’m beginning to wonder. Certainly, RF’s “Surf�, “The North Star� and “Western Skies� albums have been the soundtrack to our romance these past eleven months.
And just recently, I’ve been getting back into the music of another favourite singer of mine, Steve Forbert.
It seems he’s also a distinctly minority taste … in these days of Sugababes banality.
I recently bought one of Forbert’s more recent albums, “Strange Names and New Sensations� and was well impressed with the poetry of it.
One of the tracks harks back to the theme of my previous posting – about the world suddenly seeming very small and degraded. The track’s called “Thirty More Years�. Here are a few lines from it...
“It’s often said that life is strange, but, hey, compared to what?
I asked this question years ago, it’s still worth asking, but
It all seems stranger now, I think, but that could just be me
And I’ve no all-time gauge of strange for objectivity.�
Getting back to the Telling Pole, I had an enjoyable natter in there with Brian A Cappella, a local singer comedian who has been to my Bards of New Brighton poetry group once or twice.
Brian does a brilliant song called “I Am The World’s Greatest Lover� or something like that.
His missus Nursey was in the pub with him – and she remembered me as a most awkward Moaning Minnie of a patient at Arrowe Park Hospital when I was incarcerated there with chronic headaches last January.
That’s when I thought I was about to die – and I couldn’t bear that because it would have meant I’d never again be able to gaze into the lovely aquamarine eyes of Posh Boots.
Well, I came back from the brink, of course, and I’m feeling fine(ish) now.
Brian said he will come to my next Bards meeting and perform one of his songs, shift work permitting.
Everyone is welcome at the Bards and it’s a great antidote to utterly moronic popular culture we have these days. We meet from 8.30pm in the folk music room at the Magazine Hotel “the Mags� near the New Brighton promenade (on the river side) on the second Monday of each month. Our next meeting is on Monday 14 July.
Still with the Telling Pole, I was in there about a week ago and a young man was showing people a video clip he had on his phone of a former Brookside star in a terrible state in a car.
I’m not going to say any more, and I’m certainly not going to reveal the identity of the poor thesp concerned.
But I will say this … “former Brookside star� is surely one of the saddest phrases in the English language.
I’m thinking of starting a regular feature of sad phrases, because increasingly they abound. We’ve already had “hessian bags� as promoted by militant environmentalists. I’ll see if I can suggest some more.
Here you go, let’s have “Superlambanana� right away. That always bores me senseless.
Talking of sad (though it was also funny) I tittered in the beer garden of the Telling Pole as Mr Mainwaring the Bank Manager told Posh Boots and I, Dr Gyggle and Litherland Lou, a story about someone falling asleep at a Daniel O’Donnell concert.
It was almost as funny as the tale about the Irish authorities failing to persuade the former Russian President Boris Yeltsin to get off the plane and meet the dignitaries during a visit to Ireland.
When it was suggested this was because Boris had got blotto on board, on vodka, the Russians insisted that wasn’t the case, and in reality he just couldn't face listening to Daniel O’Donnell sing at the reception party.
Poor Daniel, he is underestimated. He sings straightforward songs with simple lyrics and he loves his mammy. Maybe Corky and Duncan would like his stuff.
Oh, and talking of Corky, I’ve just heard some good news. He and his band Recklessly Hellbent are back performing at the re-opened Ginny pub in Rowson Street, New Brighton, for their regular Tuesday slots.
Any chance of a few Roddy Frame covers, Corks? OK then, I’ll settle for a couple of Daniel O’Donnell cockle-warmers.

COMING SOON ... for freedom's sake ... the day I went out to lunch with David Davis MP.

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