tag:,2008:/491 2008-11-26T17:49:15Z Rattling the cages of modern life... Movable Type Enterprise 4.21-en tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://491.107921 2008-11-26T13:35:08Z 2008-11-26T17:49:15Z

I WENT to Wigan and the JJB Stadium on Monday night with Commuting Mitch, a friend from New Brighton. He's a Bitter Blue and so it was a far from happy 93 minutes for him - watching an off-form Everton...

Commuting Mitch, a friend from New Brighton. He's a Bitter Blue and so it was a far from happy 93 minutes for him - watching an off-form Everton get beat one-nil. Actually, he left the stadium early for a consoling pint in the Brickmakers - an old-fashioned local that nestles in the terraced backstreets of my home town. ]]> Latics - despite a nerve-wracking late rally by the Blues. Mitch had been sat with the away crowd. I'd been in a great seat, right by David Moyes' box, with my sister, Princess Stephanie of Wigan, her daughter and her daughter's pal. Steph's a passionate Wigan supporter. On leaving the fine modern stadium, we followed in Mitch's footsteps, through the bitter cold night and across a corridor of industrial wasteland, heading for the 'Brick'. On the way we crossed the congested footbridge over the Leeds-Liverpool canal right by the spot where (40-odd years ago!) I'd floundered in the water on a canoeing event with the 12th Wigan (Sacred Heart) Scouts that went wrong. Going to Wigan to see the match was a proper nostalgia trip for me. Prior to kick off we'd had a couple in the Springy, where I used to shoot pool as a gawky 17-year old. My sister had joined us, but she scurried off to the bogs when we were approached by her former husband, Nick, who's a regular. Though I haven't lived in Wigan since I was 18, I remember as sharply as if it was yesterday being waved off by my family as I boarded a train for university 'Down South' in October 1975. And Wigan still feels like my town; to a very large degree it made me what I am. Anyway, Mitch hooked up with a workmate from Manchester in the Springy. That fella is a Wiganer who, it turned out, lived in the same street as my mum. Another Wigan lad joined us and we started talking, finding out which local secondary school we'd each attended - Fisher or Gidlow - instantly identifying who was Catholic and who was Protestant. Then the talk turned to nightclubs, and the magical Pemps, a now sadly defunct Gnostic nightclub (Gnostic; oh, come ON, look it up!). Wiganers are divided into two camps. Those who LOVED Pemps (such as my sister and I) and those who were, well, scared to cross it threshold, frankly. I miss Pemps very much. Many are the times I've danced away the hours there to Motown and Style Council tracks. Anyhow, I enjoyed the football, and I think the Everton keeper - who I understand is American - deserves a medal for his services on Monday night. And I've only one word of criticism for the JJB: the meat and potato pie I bought there was rubbish! The Latics' chairman Dave Whelan also owns Poole's pies, but judging by the one I sampled quality has nose-dived. It was as dry as dust and meanly filled. That's bad. Pies are taken Very Seriously Indeed in Wigan. OK, enough with the digressions... When we'd finished supping in the Brick we went in search of a late bar, of which there used to be plenty in Wigan. We did find one that was open on a Monday night. It was called the Boulevard - and no doubt the home of many broken dreams. I liked the place; it had character, lots of real ale and a pool table. A group of Wigan wenches off the tills at Morrisons supermarket were in there to celebrate the 40th birthday of one of their number. They were nice enough, but I think they were trying to chat us up (well wouldn't you, girls?), but we weren't having it and edged away. I'm quite content with my Posh Boots, thank you. And Mitch has his missus Greta to look forward to - if she ever manages to fly back from her stint of voluntary service in strife-torn Thailand, God love her. Posh Boots, I have to say, was very sweet when she discovered I was going to be at an 8pm football match on the coldest night of the year. She bought me some new gloves, a thermal tee shirt and some thermal socks, which kept me quite cosy. She also dug out the ridiculous furry hat I used to wear when I was a reporter on the Macclesfield Express. While we were in the Boulevard - which has a very efficient Birkenhead woman as bar manager, by the way - I also chatted to a youngish fella who was a Blues fan from Norwich, another of my old stamping grounds. He was in company with two lads from Doncaster (also Blues fans) one of whom looked so young he could probably get a job as a singer with McFly. I think one of the Morrison's lasses wanted to have him for her breakfast. It was a very good night, but I'm afraid I drank industrial quantities of red wine, so the next day I had to indulge myself with far too many Veganin tablets and Dioralite sachets That and some more pies; better ones this time, from Galloway's. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://491.105824 2008-11-18T17:46:22Z 2008-11-18T17:56:20Z

SO we had our third meeting of the New Brighton Educative Wine Tasting Society - NEWTS for short - a few nights ago. This time there was a Spanish Rioja theme, and the soiree was held at Posh Boots' winter...

NEWTS for short - a few nights ago. This time there was a Spanish Rioja theme, and the soiree was held at Posh Boots' winter palace in Liscard, Wallasey's "town centre" (ha,ha,ha!). The Newts' leader, Rocky, was in command of all the detailed knowledge as usual - and very good he is too, only on this occasion I wasn't really playing close attention; I was simply in the mood for drinking not listening... ]]> Given that I know my way around Rioja wine pretty well anyway, I just glugged away... I remember telling someone there he was the type who would "sup from a sweaty clog" - meaning he was a right caner and not too fussy about what was in his glass as long as it was alcoholic. I don't think the bloke was beast pleased once he'd worked out what I meant (supping from a sweaty clog is something of a Wigan put-down, and not widely known outside that Lancashire town). There was plenty of tapas-style food brought by our 12 guests - who included a very animated Dr Gyggle and Litherland Lou - and we all sat around a specially elongated dinner table in the style of a Renaissance painting of the Last Supper (the one with Judas looking dead shifty). Anyway, all the grub stopped us all getting too giddy. We had intended to stop the tastings at 11.30pm and toddle off to Liscard's La Narrowboat bar to finish off the evening in style, but actually we stayed at Posh Boots' place till the early hours, draining all the bottles and toasting Melony's recent birthday with cava. It all happened last Saturday night. On Sunday it was the occasion of a lads' evening drink in the Telling Pole pub on the New Brighton / Liscard border. I'd forgotten it was a lads night and bowled up with Posh Boots on my arm. Don't know if her presence cramped the boys' style that night and stopped them being manly and earthy in their conversation but, hey ho, men are from Mars and Women are from Wallasey Village and all that ... I did ask the lads - Commuting Mitch, Fronk, Corky, Adnan Nauticus, and Eueueueuen among them - if having a woman at the table would stop them talking about things they would have raised has company had been exclusively male. "What sort of things," they wondered... "Well, you know," I replied, "men things ... crisps, spanners, military strategy ... where to buy the best moisturiser and 'guy-liner' - Superdrug or Boots?" They gave me a funny look. They're not a very metrosexual bunch, Wallasey fellas. Me, I've got an excuse; I lived in London for 16 years ... ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://491.103520 2008-11-08T19:24:07Z 2008-11-10T11:20:50Z

SO Barack Obama did it! If he doesn't get assassinated before he's sworn in as President of the Free World - and I sincerely hope he won't be - we can look to a fresh start and a healthy dollop...

although I wouldn't have voted for him had I been eligible...]]> Roddy Frame song title as my headline - Good Morning Britain, from Aztec Camera's Stray album Now, as the new world order unfolds, bringing with it fresh dangers, it is more important than ever to strengthen the UK's relationship with the US. Together the two countries need to build the world's greatest civilisation, based on liberty, justice and the staggeringly beautiful English language. The old British Empire, though comparatively short-lived, was the biggest empire the world has so far seen. But now, a multi-racial alliance of the English-speaking world, led by the US and the UK, and including Canada, Australia, New Zealand and other element of our foolishly neglected Commonwealth has the potential to become a great humane force in the world - and a gift to the Cosmos. We can do it. Yes we can. TALKING of beautiful language, the best poetry group on Merseyside, the Bards of New Brighton, will meet again this Monday (10 November) at the Magazine pub, Magazine Brow, New Brighton, starting at 8pm. The Bards is a bit different to most other poetry clubs. It's not subsidised by Arts Council money, for a start, and is refreshingly unpretentious. Plus, there is a special transforming "atmosphere" at Bards gatherings, something akin to Magic Realism, which always makes for a memorable evening. Everyone who wants to is given a chance to read / perform their poem from the Bards' special "golden lectern". And, usually, there is a bit of live music as well as poetry. Admission is free. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.59147 2008-10-27T18:36:27Z 2008-11-02T17:10:44Z

SOME people have been trying to send comments to this posting and not managing to get them through. Apologies, but it isn't my fault. The publishing platform malfuctioned for a couple of days, that's all. Everything is back to normal...

La Narrowboat, a splendid bar in Liscard (Wallasey town centre), the other night for a couple of late bevvies. Me and Posh Boots perched on high stools amid all the fairy lights and candles as we relaxed over a couple of large reds. The Communards, Curiosity Killed the Cat and other eighties tracks played merrily away on the sound system as we chatted. Eventually I needed to make a phone call, so to get some quiet I went with my mobile into the bar's back passage, near the bogs... ]]> blonde woman as she brushed past on her way to the ladies' toilets. A couple of minutes later a shortish, burly fellow entered the corridor, heading for the gents, I assumed. So I muttered a friendly greeting to him - as men are wont to do if they find themselves enclosed in narrow passageways together. I think I said "Hiya, lad" ... well, I am a Wiganer and that's the sorta thing we say if we don't know a bloke's name. He smiled at me (or was it more of a grimace?) and went into the toilets. Only thing was ... he went into the lay-dees' bogs, and he didn't come bustling straight out again as a guys tend to do if they stumble into the women's WC by mistake (as can happen). Well, I carried on with my phone call but three minutes later this fellow still hadn't come out of the girls' room. And neither had the vaguely attractive young blonde women who had entered moments before him... Oh, heck, I thought, they've arranged to go in there to have hanky-panky of some sort. Somewhat embarrassed, I returned to my seat with the very respectable Posh Boots. A few minutes later both the woman and guy came out of the toilets together and resumed their places at the bar. I then noticed that they were very friendly and touchy-touchy with each other. And it didn't end there... On closer inspection I discovered that the person I'd took to be a man in the corridor was, in fact, a lady. A rather butch-looking lady, but a female nonetheless. So probably, they'd been in the toilets together for perfectly appropriate purposes. Then again...? Oh, who am I to judge anyway?! "Whatever gets you through the night!" Wasn't that the civic motto of the old Wallasey Council... before the Death Star that is Wirral Council moved in to spoil everyone's fun on the peninsula? Anyway, we had some interesting chats with the people in La Narrowboat that night, but I'm afraid I'm far too discreet to discuss in this posting the subject matter of our conversations... ANYONE who has sussed the fact that we live in an age of too much information and technological overload might be amused by these imagined remarks I've made up from the mouth of a fictional company representative in response to a query from a customer ... "Oh, not sir, I've afraid you'll have to to go our website for that. Visit www.mustdestroy.com On the home page you'll find a link to further confusion. And you can download a useless resource pack." A REMINDER, I've reinvented my former SAM BRADY column from the days of ORACLE Teletext. Check Sam out... http://sambradyoracle.blogspot.com/]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.58337 2008-10-15T13:52:31Z 2008-10-24T15:50:31Z

NEWSFLASH!! I've resurrected my old SAM BRADY of the ORACLE column as a blog. Check it out ... http://sambradyoracle.blogspot.com/ THE world's in a fair old pickle and no mistake. All the greatest minds have had their say on the financial...

NEWSFLASH!! I've resurrected my old SAM BRADY of the ORACLE column as a blog. Check it out ... http://sambradyoracle.blogspot.com/ THE world's in a fair old pickle and no mistake. All the greatest minds have had their say on the financial crisis, the global panic and pervasive feeling that we're about to enter a new Dark Age. Including me! The money markets might be settling down - or they might not. It's too early to tell, but the world's economy is certainly sliding into recession and maybe depression. Part of me, actually, thinks it's good that the economy's collapsing - because we are all surely fed up with buying too much junk. brigands of international capitalism to design and build obsolescence into products - so we will keep on buying crap new lines. For the same reason the capitalists deliberately design product incompatibility into parts and accessories. Have you ever tried to buy a spare charger for your mobile phone, for instance? How come they vary so much between models and even between successive generations of models? And how come they cost so much? It's madness. This is no way to live. It means we are constantly letting things rot in the fridge, because we buy too much; it means we must keep on de-cluttering our houses, because we buy too much. And we work too much. Yes, millions of people, certainly in Britain, toil and spin for cruelly overlong working hours and get very stressed and bitter as a consequence - especially in office jobs, where there are endless meetings to endure, plus much bullying and spiteful office politics. Is our system of work, capitalist production and mass consumption making us happy, generally? Yeah, thought you might think that! Just who IS happy these days? Are the workers, who toil and struggle to pay mortgages and rent while having little time for relaxation and family life? And those people who exist on State benefits, in constant fear of benefits review and being forced into low-paid jobs, are they happy? Is Britain, generally speaking, a happy country? Well, of course it isn't! There is surely a better system of distributing useful work around while reducing consumer addiction and giving everyone time for relaxation, family life and philosophising about life. And that latter aspect, the benefit of philosophising about life, and having the time and space to do so, is something we have forgotten. That's a great shame. There can be no happiness without personal philosophising about life and the glorious mysteries involved in being human and mortal. Whatever. We are currently unhappy. Have been for some considerable time. We are worried. Really, really worried. If any further proof were needed on this score, the Bards of New Brighton, meeting last Monday, reflected the new fin de siècle feelings of world-weariness and despair. That's fitting I suppose, since poets and artists were at the forefront of the original fin de siècle . One after the other our Bards gave lyrical form to the angst that hovers above the world. Some of their poems were most eloquent, to be sure, but I do urge them to try out some different, more uplifting material the next time we meet. Let's have some poems that offer a smidgeon of hope for the future. A prize from me for the most optimistic poem or song next time! Meanwhile, in a possibly ill-judged attempt to lift the mood at Monday might's meeting I closed the session by singing The Red Flag defiantly, or at least the first verse and chorus, which I could remember, as follows... "The people's flag is deepest red It shrouded oft our martyred dead. And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold Their heart's blood dyed to ev'ry fold. Then raise the scarlet standard high! Beneath its folds, we'll live and die! Though cowards scoff and traitors sneer, We'll keep the red flag flying here!" It's funny, but just about the only songs I can remember from my childhood are "The Red Flag" and "Faith of My Fathers". Oh, and also the hymn that begins "Immaculate Mary, Our Hearts Are On Fire!" Consequently, it's a bit of a party trick of mine to sing those - especially when drink has been taken. Anyway, the Bards will meet again at the Magazine pub, New Brighton, on Monday 10 November, starting at 8pm. Be there - or be square. WELL done Peter Kay for satirising the appalling rash of TV talent shows so effectively with "Britain's Got the Pop Factor and Possibly a New Celebrity Jesus Christ Soapstar Superstar Strictly on Ice" on C4 last Sunday. It could be argued that X Factor, Strictly and all those cheesey musical theatre and battling choir shows were themselves glorious parodies. But actually, what the mainstream "talent" shows do is much more cynical - they trade on the dumbing down of the British public and then manipulate the viewers to make money out of them through rip-off phone voting. Peter Kay's spoof winning entrant, a transexual balladeer from Northern Ireland, called Geraldine, was a hoot. Apart from being entertaining, Kay's show might also have shamed people who've been taking the talent shows too seriously into seeing them for what they are - moronic garbage. I wish I was still writing my old Sam Brady TV review column for the ITV's teletext pages - because I'd be singing Peter's praises across the nation. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.57933 2008-10-09T16:50:03Z 2008-10-09T17:12:05Z

IT WILL be a long time before this financial crisis is over. And the Western world will have changed in a fundamental way before any sort of stability can return. The hysteria in the markets and financial service industries has...

so ... ]]> The West's true values are based on tolerance, neighbourliness, love of our fellow men and women, living with freedom under the law of our nations, commitment to family life, and respect for human life. Ultimately, those values come from God and religion; from Judaeo-Christianity, in fact. Of course they do! They grew out of a real, historic, moral code; they didn't just float down the river to us on a punnet of strawberries. But what's happened in the past 50 years or so years is that our faith in God, and in our civilisation and its traditional morality, has faded rapidly among the great mass of the people and among a great many leaders too. We thought that didn't matter. We were wrong. What has happened is that we in the West have, collectively, become mired in moral relativism and the grossest sort of materialism and consumer addiction. Only now are many people waking up to the fact that Western society - so beautiful, truthful and good in its origins - has gone rotten. Only now does the advertising we see on TV seem disgusting with its fake eroticism, lifestyle bulls***, self-worship and egoism. Only now do shopping centres dominated by chain stores, such as the new one located Chavasse Park and Paradise Street in Liverpool (the banally titled Liverpool One) seem utterly pointless and doomed to failure. Only now are ordinary people thinking: "We've been leading silly, self-centred lives, paying for luxuries on money borrowed from greedy and (as it turns out) reckless bankers." But - and there is always a "but" - I see the promise of good things emerging from this mess as we start to think seriously and soberly about our lives. Pretty soon, I think... - we'll start thinking deeply about what it means to be human, living on this small, crazy, strife-filled planet - we'll start philosophising about life; we'll rediscover neighbourliness, family life, and a spirituality more robust than the New Age nonsense of recent decades - we'll start to live in solidarity with each other instead of competition. Those are the hopes, anyway. So forget the shopping. Forget moronic telly shows such as Big Brother and X Factor. And don't look for meaning in crap magazines such as Heat - there is none. The world of such facile entertainment is fading fast - and good riddance to it. It's time to grow up. It's time for philosophising; a time for poets, prayers and promises... Talking of which...there will be a meeting of the Bards of New Brighton (poetry, songs, and comedy, but mainly poetry!) at the Magazine pub, New Brighton, on Monday 13 October, starting at 8pm. I urge anyone who senses the positive possibilities arising from the current financial and political instability to write down what they think about it all, then come to the Bards and read it to us. The Bards is an exceptionally inspirational poetry group, and there is always a rollicking good atmosphere. Admission is free and it is open to all - poets, comedy writers, satirists, singers, and people who just want to listen. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.56855 2008-09-28T22:05:31Z 2008-09-28T22:19:57Z

WINE is a great comforter - and we sure need comforting in these dark and anxious days. Which is why my gel Posh Boots and I took ourselves off to the inaugural meeting of a club organised by my friends...

Posh Boots and I took ourselves off to the inaugural meeting of a club organised by my friends Rocky and Melony, which they have named the New (Brighton) Educative Wine Tasting Society. I know! And we're calling it NEWTS for short! Unfortunately, I had a bit too much vino at the historic first gathering and "made a show" of myself. ]]> people should not have TV sets in their bedrooms. Repeatedly I hectored my fellow imbibers with the message that tellies in bedrooms were lamentable and decadent and, even, "sick and wrong". "SICK AND WRONG, do ya hear!?" Eyes rolled heavenward at the sight of the middle-aged prat (moi!) on a roll. Then I found something else to hold forth about - namely the crocheted bog roll cover in Rocky and Melony's bathroom. It wasn't one of those the fine-lady-in-a-crinoline-dress type of toilet roll cover covers that maiden aunts were so fond of knitting in the 1970s - though those were bad enough. No, this one was more of a cross between a misshapen Humpty-Dumpty figure and a malevolent gonk. I brought the thing into the living room and loudly harrumphed about how very sinister it was. "Evil" in fact, and I think I added for good measure, that it was "sick and wrong". I must say Rocky and Melony were very patient with me as I held court, as were Dr Gyggle and Litherland Lou. Dr Gyggle shares my extreme dislike of crocheted Bog Roll Monsters, as it happens. But the other six or so wine-tasting guests, some of whom I hadn't properly met before, well, they were a bit frightened by my ranting, apparently. "Sick and wrong" is a tedious catchphrase, I know, and a bit dated too, but it's an appropriate description of the state of the world right now. Banking is in collapse, terror stalks the planet, and environmental disaster is staring us in the face. Also, we've globalisation to cope with, plus massive geopolitical instability. And we in the West must also face: the soulless, values-free desert that is our post-Christian culture; a collapse of family life; a collapse of real employment; an increasingly fascistic state; love being replaced by meaningless sexual connections: culture being replaced by shopping and crass celebrity; new military aggression from emerging global power blocs; ordinary Western people becoming thicker and thicker all the time; and the West collectively losing confidence in itself ... to the point of despair. Oh, yes, it would be very, very stupid indeed to assume that all that's happening to free world right now is an economic or banking crisis. The situation is much, much more serious than that, my friends. The wise among Westerners, including the prophetic French novelist Michel Houllebecq, have warned us repeatedly of the sort of horrors heading our way - but we've chosen to take no notice, until now... If you sense that something very profound and disturbing is happening, and want to find out more I urge you read Houllebecq's novels, Whatever, Atomised, The Possibility of an Island and Platform. Fasten your seat belts, folks, it's going to be a rough ride. Have a large glass of wine - or five. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.55869 2008-09-12T17:30:02Z 2008-09-12T17:39:28Z

IT'S an innocent scene repeated daily right across our country between 3pm and 4pm ... Parents rock up on foot and in cars to collect their children from the school gates. There is nothing wrong, individually, with what each mum...

IT'S an innocent scene repeated daily right across our country between 3pm and 4pm ... Parents rock up on foot and in cars to collect their children from the school gates. There is nothing wrong, individually, with what each mum and dad is doing as part of the school run. They do it out of love and duty. Collectively though, to see it happening sends a shudder down my spine - because it signifies a sinister change in social behaviour which has happened within my lifetime. fear and paranoia about their children ... and a mistrust of any adult who comes near them. What the hell has gone wrong? Why are parents so worried and overly protective about their children? That can't be good for the kids. It can't be good for the parents. Well, for starters, there has been a lot of publicity about predatory child abuse and molestation, which understandably alarms people. As to whether there are now more monsters and perverts around than in previous decades who are intent on doing vile things to children, who knows? The evidence, as far as I can tell, is unclear. Uncomfortably, however, we know one thing for sure; abuse of children is much more common within families than it is at the hands of lone strangers who lurk, for instance, close to the school gates. But there other worries for parents; drugs being offered to kids, for instance, or bullying of a most vicious type, perhaps even knifings. I wouldn't blame any parent worrying about such things. If I'd been blessed with kids of my own I would doubtless be worrying myself sick now. Still, we must always strive to live in hope and trust. It strikes me as worth stating that our society has lost something of profound worth if it automatically assumes that the streets, in broad daylight, are no longer safe places for kids age over seven to walk in relative safety. Why shouldn't kids walk home from school by themselves? It is good for the environment; and it is good for the kids, giving them a chance to let off steam and socialise with other youngsters without the restraining influence of the school environment. If the same kids who are not allowed to walk home from school are also discouraged from playing out in the streets and recreation grounds after tea-time then I feel really sorry for them. I remember how playing out in the streets and public places until dusk was so liberating to my imagination when I was a youngster. And I simply do not accept that kids playing with computer games in their bedrooms can be anywhere near as healthy for them - physically, emotionally, mentally or spiritually. And so when I see scores of worried looking parents, on foot and in cars - as I did on Thursday afternoon in Helsby in Cheshire - picking up their kids from school, I see beyond the superficially pleasing image of people caring for and protecting their offspring. I see a society that has gone badly wrong; that has forgotten how to trust; that has said farewell to innocence. And it grieves me, it really does. I NOTE that the ever-deteriorating Royal Mail is launching a politically correct series of stamps intended to commemorate women of distinction. The trouble is one of those women, Marie Stopes, does not deserve the honour. She was a eugenicist, an admirer of Adolf Hitler (she sent a collection of poems and a gushing letter to him), and she advocated sterilisation of the poor and those of mixed race. Marie Stopes International - the organisation set up in her name - is a major international provider of sterilisation and abortion. Which person of distinction will Royal Mail honour next ... King Herod? FEELING wearied by the pressures of modern life and money worries, I sloped off last night for a few scoops of red wine in Hell's Waiting Room, New Brighton. Well, in its charming Smoke Hole at the back, to be precise. I'm glad I did. I chatted in there to Billy Bustimes, who is off the booze due to liver illness (he sups non-alcoholic Becks nowadays) and Mini-Marvin and his new squeeze, Precious. The landlady Eleganta Chignon was in and so was the smiley guy who I still think of as a "new" barman, Mr T. In the long bar I was pleased to see Barman Burly - as a customer that night, not pulling pints. He looks a lot healthier after his recent illness. I'd like Burly to come to the next Bards of New Brighton session at the Mags (Monday 13 October, starting at 8pm!) and do some of his poems and sing his sublime version of "Leaving' on a Jet Plane". Everyone kept asking how Posh Boots was and sending her their love. She was in Liscard (Wallasey town centre) having pulled a muscle in her neck. I enjoyed my wine and I smoked six roll-ups in a row in delicious liquorice skins. They were just lovely, and I offer them up as my two-fingered salute to the anti-smoking health nazis. At last knockings, in came Jack (of Jack and Jools fame). He'd recently picked up his pet dog up from the pound. It had gone missing some weeks ago. Was it pleased to see him then? "Err, not really, and he looked a bit thin." Hey-ho. Anyway, once again I got my head together in Hell's Waiting Room. The world is still OK. Life is still worth living as long as you are determined not to let the forces of evil - which are legion, my friends - grind you down. Keep the faith!! ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.55620 2008-09-09T17:11:29Z 2008-09-12T14:57:56Z

BEEN getting out and about a bit recently, visiting old pals in Edinburgh and London, and trying to make sense of the world (I know, a forlorn hope ). I was impressed with Edinburgh. There's a buzz about the place...

Edinburgh and London, and trying to make sense of the world (I know, a forlorn hope ). I was impressed with Edinburgh. There's a buzz about the place and a general good cheer on the streets that you don't find very often in England any more. I was there to see friends I used to work alongside in the newspaper industry in Scotland ... the Dark Booth, Big Scott, Wee Alan and a fellow known mysteriously as Stairwell ... plus some of their WAGS. ]]> Posh Boots. We ate well, and we took in a comedy show as part of the Edinburgh Fringe - an observational comic called Danny Bhoy - who refreshingly didn't pick on and take the p*ss out of members of the audience. (Why do the modern comics do that? Are they simply short of material?) We had more than a few drinks during our time in Edinburgh - especially on the night we all gave flamboyant karaoke performances in a Rose Street bar. I did Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart, postively screaming the line "living in a powder keg, giving off sparks!" It's a great line, of course, and one that sums up how I've felt for much of my time on Earth so far. I put so much Oohmph! into that song that I was called on to close the evening with Cher's If I Could Hold Back Time. I declined. I was all camped out by then, my passion spent. My pals, I think, did two songs each. The ones I can remember were Wee Alan's Springsteenian routine to errr, "Dancing in the Dark", I think, and the Dark Booth's "Eye of the Tiger" - the theme to those awful Rocky films, I'm told. Can't remember what Big Scott did, excactly, but I think it was by Glen Campbell. We also went to a very beautiful and groovy bar called the Voodoo Rooms. Why can't every city have bars as good as that? Well, the Scottish trip was a few weeks ago, actually, but more recently I went down to London to tidy up my flat at the Angel Islington, and redecorate it with a view to installing new tenants there. While down there, however, I mainly went out drinking and eating and introducing old friends to Posh Boots. Among those we visited were two former workmates from the Hull Daily Mail, Graeme Gingerbread and Amanda O'Booze. Plus there was Gentle John from the flats, Bad Gav (formerly lead singer from Bad Gav and the Hellbastards), and Patricia and Diane. With Diane and her husband John, we had hoped to go to one of our old haunts in the West End - Kettner's restaurant - but were disappointed to find it shut for restoration. Posh Boots and I also arranged to meet a friend originally from Norfolk journalism days, Lord Vino, who's now a big cheese in political / industrial PR (has a lot of strategy meetings in City wine bars, you know the sort of thing). I'm afraid, however, that Lord Vino was very, very drunk when we met him (a tiring strategy meeting, I expect!) and he had to be steered to a homeward bound taxi rather earlier than he normally would. Never mind, it was very nice to see him, and to meet his lovely new girlfriend, Princess Karoline of Norfolk. We meet them in my favourite Soho pub, the Dog and Duck on the junction of Frith and Bateman Street, and shared a couple of bottles of red wine with them. (The wine was of great quality and cost only £7.99 a bottle at the bar - amazingly good value for the centre of London. Why can't the bars in impoverished Wallasey sell decent wine at such keen prices? And don't even get me started on the rip-off bar tariffs you get in the bourgeois country pubs near Chester.) Anyway, after Lord Vino and Princess Karoline went home, Posh Boots and I continued cavorting a while longer "up West". We grabbed a quick cheap meal in the Soho Stockpot (and some more red wine, natch) before heading back to the Angel, stopping for a few late ones en route in the very bohemian and tiny Troy club. It was good to see everybody, but it was all a bit tiring - as London can be. All things considered, I'm glad I don't live there any more. After the long journey home on Monday afternoon I was a bit late arriving to run the Bards of New Brighton poets and singers group - and a bit knackered and incoherent to be honest. But however wrecked one feels, there is always time for poetry, and we had some particularly good readings from Stella, Ieuan, Len Rosso and Ian Nenna. Plus, we enjoyed a great local sea shanty from Tim Kingdom and some fine singing from the bass voice of Dave Gilbey. *** If you are interested in coming to the Bards of New Brighton, we meet on the second Monday of each month at the Magazine pub, New Brighton, starting at 8pm. The next meeting is on Monday, October 13. I promise I won't be as tired and narky in hosting it next month. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.54694 2008-08-26T18:07:14Z 2008-08-27T20:53:48Z

Red-brick terraced houses in the westering sun... The bricks absorb the sunshine and reflect it back with a warmth that makes me grateful for all the years I've lived in the beautiful territory we call England. Terraced houses. They speak...

Red-brick terraced houses in the westering sun... The bricks absorb the sunshine and reflect it back with a warmth that makes me grateful for all the years I've lived in the beautiful territory we call England. Terraced houses. They speak of home for me, and security, and belonging. Cats restlessly patrol the red-brick walls of the yards ... like homesick Roman legionaries on the ramparts of Chester two millennia ago. The built environment rarely has the power to move me in a spiritual way, to the point of tears, but this certainly does. This is, after all, just kind of setting that gave me - and millions of other (mainly) working class northern English people - all the space and security we needed through the decades of industrial expansion and decline. It was the bedrock of our cultural identity. But it could be argued that our red-brick rows of houses, our backstreets of the heart, also acted as brakes on our imagination and kept our ambitions in check. To escape from the backstreets was considered an audacious and even snobby desire. A recent storyline in Coronation Street touched on this ... when Ken Barlow made a bonfire of his vanity (represented by the novel he'd written years ago) in the backyard of his home. Ken then shared a "Deirdre" (a large glass of red wine) with his wife while sitting with her against the red-brick wall of the yard. Then, slowly, philosophically, he reconciled himself to his lot; including his thwarted ambition to leave the backstreets behind. Culturally, psychologically, spiritually, some of us are simply not destined to leave the backstreets. Of course, the days when each terraced house was beautifully kept - the steps whitened with donkey-stone and the windows kept sparkling, by proud matriarchs - have long gone...along with most of neighbourliness we once took for granted. These days, the terraced house might be occupied by the new poor: students, or the long-term jobless on benefits, or single mums who leave the house only to trot to the local Bargain Booze in their pyjamas when they rise from their slumbers at the crack of noon. But still, I think there is a lingering affection for the terraced house, and certainly in the part of Wallasey I referred to above. Some of the back yards have had their walls painted in cream and other pastel colours. Pots of geraniums and roses are dotted around. I'm sure if bourganvilia could be grown in our bighted climate, it would be seen in the back yards of northern English towns, and very fine it would look there. Because our terraced houses are most definitely beautiful if they are even moderately well maintained. And the best thing is, they offer us a kind of beauty that can be found only in this country. Now that's something we can really feel good about. * I have a poem about growing up in the backstreets, in a terraced house. I plan to perform it at the next Bards of New Brighton meeting, in the back room of the Magazine pub, 7 Magazine Brow, New Brighton, on Monday 8 September, if you'd like to hear it. The meeting starts at 8pm. Admission is free. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.54523 2008-08-22T16:27:28Z 2008-08-22T16:38:32Z

FEW of we humans manage to achieve a reputation that lives on after we die. Those who do get an honoured niche for themselves in the halls of posterity usually haven't striven for it. They may have striven for art,...

And is it always good to be remembered for one's deeds and creations anyway?]]> Lita Roza, a singer who found great fame in the 1950s. Lita was the first Liverpudlian to get to number one in the pop charts. What a shame it had to be with "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?" - one of the naffest songs ever to become an international hit. Poor Lita, she hated that song and for the rest of her career refused to perform it. Good - she had artistic integrity. Though complete rubbish, the Doggie ditty is undeniably memorable and continues to resonate down through the decades. The man who wrote it, Bob Merrill, took his own life in 1998. One of his other songs was also garbage yet did enormously well - "She Wore Red Feathers and a Hula Hula Skirt". Merrill clearly had a talent for creating songs that were memorable while also being stupid and banal. I think his modern equivalents as song-writers should do very well now that popular "culture" has dumbed down so much. Already, I'm sure, there is a huge market for banality and stupidity in contemporary popular music; just consider rap and modern R'n'B. What tat it all is. Meanwhile, truly talented song-writers, such as Roddy Frame and Steve Forbert, are no longer widely known, though each of them has enjoyed critical acclaim over recent decades and both gentlemen are greatly loved for their songs ... well, at least by smart-arses like me! One place where claims are being made daily for glory and posterity is, of course, Beijing , currently hosting the Olympics. At the time of writing this, Great Britain had, somewhat astonishingly, taken third place in the medals table. Two hollow cheers then - as our country appears to be doing well at something for once. Except that the whole concept of marrying sporting prowess with nationalistic pride is morally repugnant and desperately old-fashioned. I'm not at all a fan of the games. In so many ways they are flawed and full of corruption. The Olympic motto Citius, Altius, Fortius, meaning Swifter, Higher, Stronger, says it all. You are encouraging people to feats of incredible physical exertion but for no purpose that can be considered humane, noble, poetic or spiritual. In various forms, the Olympics are all about running, jumping and pushing for their own sake and are consequently very damaging to the personalities of the athletes. To be a top athlete these days involves having a single-minded determination to always go swifter and higher or be stronger than the next man or woman. To do that a person must, of necessity, blot out all the other aspects of personal development which makes one a rounded human being - such as humility, gracious acceptance of defeat, humour and the ability to be philosophical about life. It is no wonder there's so much drug abuse in sport - with so much sad desperation to beat other people at purely physical pursuits. To win at all costs! Add to all that the rampant commercialism of sponsorship by sports brands, and the way the Olympics are being run by a nation which routinely tramples over human rights, and you have a very ugly spectacle indeed. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.53519 2008-08-10T20:44:24Z 2008-08-11T11:35:40Z

FINE poetry and intelligent songs - we need them more than ever in this era of soul-rotting light entertainment pap. (If I hear one more person cite Hollyoaks, Big Brother, or the oxygen-stealing Superlambanana as examples of "culture", popular or...

Hollyoaks, Big Brother, or the oxygen-stealing Superlambanana as examples of "culture", popular or otherwise, I swear I'll gnaw off my own foot in frustration.) The above-mentioned are not culture - they are crap. So try something different ...try attending the Bards of New Brighton poetry and singing group. There is a session on Monday 11 August, starting at 8pm, in the Magazine pub, New Brighton. Admission is free and all are welcome. ]]> large, small and thwarted), truth, falsehood, peace, war, politics, humour, sarcasm and justice. And that's before we get down to the controversial stuff such as: what it means to be a Scouser; why nothing works within Wirral Council's Death Star boundaries; what it means to be human; what it means to be mortal; what it means to be a Wiganer; and what it feels like to be Dalek in modern society. Actually the Dalek entertainment will come from me and Posh Boots, together performing what might be called a philsophical comedy sketch .... about a Dalek in love with a human woman. It will be Posh Boots' first public reading ... so a big warm hand on her entrance please. Honestly though, you never know what to expect when a poet takes to the floor at the Bards. The content might be exotic, it might be subversive, it might be dangerous, or it might melt your heart and even inspire you to write a poem, or a song, yourself. But we can be sure of one thing at these sessions ... poetry and singing from the heart, real feelings for the real world, as the headline on this posting indicates, and not the make-believe world of fake celebrity and mass infotainment. Incidentally, there is a free drink from me for anyone who can tell me which song, by which singer, contains the line "it feels like the real world, and it feels like our world". Of one thing we can be sure, creative people gathering in cultural solidarity in a fine riverside pub like the Magazine on a summer evening for a Bards sessions,well, it sure beats sitting at home watching the dross that passes for TV these days (Coronation Street and Scrubs excepted, for they are art, written by talented writers). Anyway, come and get some real culture ... culture that hasn't been killed by the dead hand of public funding. Come to the Bards of New Brighton! ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.52917 2008-07-30T12:17:56Z 2008-07-30T12:31:21Z

TO the Scouse House caff in old Birkenhead last night for an open mic poetry session run by my friend Malevolent Malc. 'Twas a good night, a very good night, and I performed two newly minted poems. One was an...

Malevolent Malc. 'Twas a good night, a very good night, and I performed two newly minted poems. One was an examination on the nature of rebellion, which hinted at the alternative virtue to rebellion, obedience, which, of course, is not considered attractive to the modern mind. That new poem, A Rebel's Heart, also evoked the ultimate battle ever, with Lucifer the proud angel leading his "stars of the morning" in a war against God in Heaven. The second piece was a two-hander, and more of a comedy sketch than a poem. It is titled A Dalek's Special Love and is about a dalek who's in a romantic relationship with a human, a woman. ]]> (Yes, a woman. I am not going down the gay daleks route; the comedian Victor Lewis-Smith has already done that.) At the Scouse House premiere of my piece, I had to get Malevolent Malcolm to read the part of the human girlfriend to my role as the demented dalek. That raised some eyebrow as it is quite a physical piece of comedy. My real-life girlfriend is a shy sort and she didn't feel she could do the woman's part justice in a public rendition without having a few practice sessions first. However, she will be reading it with me at our next session of the Bards of New Brighton poetry group, at the Magazine pub, New Brighton, on Monday 11 August, starting 8pm. I am increasingly fascinated by daleks. Though they are not sophisticated in design, they have always had a powerful though malevolent identity. What's more, since the revival of Doctor Who by the BBC (something I campaigned for in my years as Sam Brady, the vituperative TV critic of ORACLE and Teletext), the dalek is probably the only British "brand" that retains any force around the world. It has a charisma that the bland, dumb Superlambanana utterly lacks. What are those plonkers who run culture events in Liverpool thinking of in giving such prominence to something so very, very boring? In my above-mentioned dalek piece, I raise the serious poetic subject of what it means to be a sentient being without the redeeming qualities that humans have - such as niceness, faithfulness, and selflessness. I raise those qualities only in the sense that I show how baffling and horrible life must be without them, as the daleks discover - which is why they are always in a nark. Well, it's not the only reason for their narkiness; there is their intrinsic evil to consider. Mostly, however, my new dalek routine works on a vulgar comedy level. It also involves me, in parts, screeching like a lust-filled fascist, which is good fun, though only on a comedic level. In my personal politics, I am, of course, a classic woolly liberal - albeit in an era when liberalism and socialism are busy turning themselves into a new and sinister form of Nazi-ism which increasingly orders all of us how to act, speak and even think. Beware of the daleks. They are already in Government. Just look at Harriet Harperson, our Deputy Labour Leader and Minister for Wimmin. Trampling over freedom and crushing all signs of human personality is clearly something she relishes. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.52327 2008-07-22T18:51:54Z 2008-07-22T19:48:47Z

I COUNTED and she'd used 75 candles in all. Tea lights, mainly. All those flickering points of light to spell out a simple message: I love you. Yes, my betrothed, Posh Boots, arranged those candles on her dining room table,...

I COUNTED and she'd used 75 candles in all. Tea lights, mainly. All those flickering points of light to spell out a simple message: I love you. Yes, my betrothed, Posh Boots, arranged those candles on her dining room table, for me, just before I called at her flat last Saturday. Now, as I write, it is exactly one year (to the hour!) that Posh Boots and I first met. We hit it off immediately and within days became inseperable. About half an hour from now ... we will go out for a celebratory drink and a curry. Hurrah! ]]> No-one has ever done anything as beautiful as that for me before. Though I must say, there was a touch of recipricocity about her act of tenderness - because hours earlier I had spent 13 quid I couldn't afford on several bunches of flowers to spread around her newly decorated dining room. Ahhh.. Now, I don't want to make any of you long-suffering readers cringe at my public revelations of lovey-doveyness. But, honestly, I just feel I'm a lucky man to have found a life-partner as gorgeous and kind as Posh Boots. There is no way I deserve her but I sure am glad to be with her. Every day I tell her she is beautiful. And often I tell her I wished I'd known her all the years of her life - instead of for just a year. We met when I was aged 50 and she 49. We'd been introduced to each other by friends that night. It wasn't your usual, desperate, sweaty, New Brighton chat-up scenario. Anyway, after nearly 20 years of being a singleton (excluding the very occasional brief, fumbling romance), I am now engaged, eventually, to be married. You often read in local papers and parish mags etc.,about people who've been married for 50 years or more. Theirs is the real achievement, not ours. But meeting someone in your youth and sticking with that person through thick and thin, for decade after decade, isn't always how it works - and certainly not these days. It didn't work that way for me and it hasn't worked that way for countless millions of others. But if the story of me and Posh Boots means anything at all, it means this... that love can come calling even when you least expect it. And if a top quality lass such as Posh Boots can find something to love in a disgruntled, messy old vagabond like me, then there is hope for everybody. I often ask myself: how the hell did it all go right? Of course, even in maturity, and even for us, the Posh'n'Specs of Wallasey, the path of love rarely runs smoothly. There are arguments; there are tantrums; you just have to battle though them. So if anyone is reading this as a single person (perhaps divorced, perhaps bereaved, maybe confused, maybe lonely) I say this: you are not alone. Everywhere, in increasing numbers, people are in similar circumstances. And, of course, some people are quite content to be single. Our society needs to recognise that being single is a valid, and in some ways heroic, way of living. ]]> tag:steveregan.merseyblogs.co.uk,2008://25.52044 2008-07-17T17:16:16Z 2008-07-17T17:35:14Z

THE smoking ban is causing pubs to close down in record numbers. The situation's dire. PricewaterhouseCoopers (PWC), the respected accountancy firm, predicts that 6,000 pubs will close nationally in the next five years. By imposing a blanket smoking ban on...

historic social institution that is the British pub - forced smokers out onto the pavements (definitely not environmentally desirable) - forced older people (who'd been going to the pub all their adults lives to socialise with friends over drinks and cigarettes) into social isolation. No-one is pretending that smoking is entirely healthy - though a good argument can be made for its health-promoting functions as a reliever of stress and a substitute for killer junk food. ]]> I know which sort of society I prefer ... and it ain't the slob one. Now, I don't think the smoking ban is entirely to blame for the decline in the quality and quality of our pubs - but I do think it's about 70 per cent the cause. The credit crunch is also part of the problem; as is the rip-off duty levied on alcohol sales by the State; as are the chains of greedy pub companies screwing tenants. The break down in family life and neighbourliness hasn't helped either. That makes potential pub-goers less sociable, less inclined to visit a pub. Also - and this is a very important consideration - the pubs that remain need to do much more to make customers feel welcome. I'm not a big drinker, and nor is Posh Boots, but we do like to step out for the occasional sundowner. Yet in a minority of pubs in Wallasey we encounter grumpy, and in some cases, downright miserable bar staff. They bring our mood down. Now, I know that running a pub or working behind a bar is hard work and not very well renumerated (I've done it for a living, after all). But landlords and staff alike need to make an effort to be more pleasant and warm - just, well, more human! Some of them, however, have faces like smacked a***s and others don't seem to have any personality at all. Those in the pub trade need to realise that a smile costs nothing - and it might just convince people that it's worth making the effort to go out for a drink every so often. ]]>