So, there he was in the University bookshop. Bright, smiling, attractive.
It's not often you want to say those sorts of thing about a friend but Chris is all of that and more.
I did a sort of whisk, into the car, through the traffic, out to Crosby and on to the shoreline by 5:45pm. After sunset but before the end of twilight, I popped the tops off two bottles of beer I'd brought with me for the occasion. Chris lit cigarettes. And we toasted the weekend.
The area was a bit of a shock for Chris as the mouth of the Mersey bore a remarkable resemblance to the waterfront at Belfast. When he mentioned it, I could see the similarity but I'd not specifically thought about it in bringing him there. More it was a need to begin our time together with a touch of sea.
The next hour was nerve-wracking as I viewed my house through someone else's eyes. Hypercritical, I saw every crack in the paintwork, every blemish in every surface, every unfinished or botched job that the previous owner had inflicted on the place. However, Chris likes the house and I feel happier in that knowledge. Overall, I think he is even happy to come back and stay again despite the lack of certain basic creature comforts like carpet in the front room. I now know that I must put a lock on the bathroom door.
We ate rather well over the weekend even if the first meal (a stirfry) ended up feeling a little short on quantity. I liked the pork casserole of Saturday night. Breakfasts consisted of scrambled eggs on toasted bagels one morning and speciality sausages the next. Lunchtimes we ate out. The Bluecoat in Liverpool on Saturday and Harry Ramsden's on the motorway on the Sunday. And the wine was copious and of good quality. For me, a very alcoholic weekend.
Chris and I both have very associative minds. Consequently, being with him, as well as being a joy, was also quite mentally exhausting. We spark thoughts, notions and ideas in each other. As I showed him round my city, I experienced it again as living history; a personal history for me and a public history displaying 400 years of recorded English History. I've recorded elsewhere the genesis of this project and how the term WebLife alludes to the fact that this is a life recorded on the Web as well as being a life experienced as a web of cross references. To experience Liverpool with Chris was to spin that web through the streets of my childhood and beyond.
We talked a lot about my move and about Chris's feelings for place. I reminded him of conversations we'd had before I moved away from London. About how I was returning to my landscape. How it felt like heimat. We mulled for a while over the concept of soil. How people, plants, ideas and creativity need the right soil in which to flourish. We avoided becoming biblical. We did not talk about stony ground. But we both felt that I was now embedded in my right soil.
And we walked far and wide.
I showed him Percy Street (where I lived and loved from 1979 until 1988 even during my two years working in Burnley) and Egerton Street (which was my home from 1988 until 1993 when I came down to London). We went into the Anglican cathedral where I heard Simon Rattle conduct Mahler 2 in 1980. I went with one of my first proper gay affairs, Norman. I wonder where he (and many others if it comes to that) is now. We went down into the graveyard and gazed up at Gambia Terrace. We walked down the Regency splendour of Rodney Street where all the private doctors used to have their practices, down Leece Street passed the bombed out shell of St Luke's prompting discussions about the Blitz and Dublin's role in Liverpool's destruction. Into town and lunch at the Bluecoat where I used to have an office when I was a marketing person.
On through the business quarter. Past Oriel Chambers, the world's first iron framed building. Down to the waterfront. The Liver Building, the Cunard Building, the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board Building, the final one of that trio where I attended the course that re-trained me for the IT industry. It's a skyline whose silhouette is recognisable across the world. And there are few cities outside of London and Edinburgh in the UK for whom you could say that.
On to the Albert Dock. Coffee in Tate Liverpool. Back up to the car and home again.
As with many before him, Chris was gobsmacked by my city. He just hadn't expected so many wonderful buildings. I love it. It made its money in the late 18th and the early 19th century. The buildings reflect this. They have a grace and elegance and a human proportion that cities like Manchester and Birmingham, whose money comes later and from manufacturing rather than the seatrades, just don't have. Manchester buildings to me are infected with elephantism. Chris remarked how alike Liverpool, Belfast and Dublin are. Certainly, Dublin to me feels like Liverpool would have looked if it hadn't been for the Blitz and the town planning of the 1960s. Luckily, in the 60s, Liverpool was not wealthy or it may have gone the same route as Birmingham.
And we talked some more. Chris challenged me as all good frineds should. I've challenged him often enough. He challenged me about Ross. Given that Merseyside is the right soil for me, is it the right soil for Ross? I've come here to be creative? Can he be creative here also? London is right for him now as he builds contacts around the Gallery scene. He may not always need to be so on hand. Recent enquiries have come from Bristol and Derbyshire. They could be handled from anywhere. But is Merseyside the right place? I guess I'll have to find out.
We settled in for the night and watched videos of two films set in Liverpool, The Fruit Machine and Letter to Brezhnev. I spent a happy time explaining where all the locations were in relation to our afternoon's trek.
We both ogled Tony Forsyth in The Fruit Machine and wondered what had become of him. The Internet Movie Database records that, after starring in The Fruit Machine in 1988, he had a small part in Mel Smith's The Tall Guy the following year. After that, nothing. Although an actor bearing his name appeared in a short film entitled Carbon Copy in 1998 but who knows if they were the same person.
I had a moment of surprise when I clocked Brandon, who I knew in the 80s, dancing in the club scene at the beginning of Letter to Brezhnev. And so to bed.
Following day I shut down the house. Turned of unnecessary electrics. Put pine disinfectant down all the plugs and bleach down the toilet. My God, my mother did a good job on me. Then off.
We took the route out down the Mersey and across the Runcorn Bridge. I was astonished by the amount of regeneration that has gone on in the past 7 years. There must be 1000s more people living within the city environs now. And the housing stock looks good.
We drove down to London through divine light. I wore sun glasses all the way. It had snowed. And it was gorgeous. Perfect ending to a great weekend. Now a week off work in London with my Rossi.
