Stanfords Finest

The worst thing about waiting is the waiting. It’s the not knowing and uncertainty of a situation you cannot influence – it’s in the lap of the gods. My situation is simple, I am waiting to see if I have got a job. Not just any job, a job that will quadruple my current income, see me live on the other half of the world and thrust me into new realms of stress and responsibility. I have been in negotiations for about a month and today or tomorrow I should know. If I don’t get it I will be happy as my company is here and my life is good, if I do get it I will also be happy as my life will change beyond all recognition. I am sure as the weeks unfold my life will become clearer but for now it is more confusing than it was six months ago. One element that is an unknown to me is leaving England for years. Friends have done it but I haven’t although my trips away are increasing year on year. When I am away I don’t miss London at all. I don’t miss the panic, noise, aggression and expense. And the weather. There’s nothing I can get here that I cannot get elsewhere apart from Spurs matches and a pint. Music, clothes, books, food and culture are all readily available in any developed city in the world courtesy of the internet. Everything apart from food of course but you can get the original version of some dish that in London would cost you 500% more, half the taste and served by some stroppy cunt from Clapham. Who knows what will be but time waits for no man and that’s no lie.

Oh Liverpool is wonderful. I love Liverpool. It’s a city that creates emotion – you either love it or hate it. Or rather, people love or hate Scousers. To my mind, and in my experience, those that dislike Liverpool are middle class or Mancs. Liverpool is like a walking museum sometimes; the buildings and streets that form the city centre were primarily built using the money of the slave trade. Those years were the golden days of Liverpool’s economy and ever since the city has been on the slide financially. Despite the efforts of John, Paul, Ringo and George the city has never quite recreated its importance and the current residents are not there for the dough only thats for sure. Despite its poverty Scousers are justifiably proud and the city is now an enclave of a dying breed – the old fashioned white working class citizen. In fact it reminds me of my homelands of Essex; fake tans, jewellery, tracksuits and bad food.

One walk along the streets on a Saturday night reveals Irish Bar after Irish Bar full of singing bus drivers on Karaoke machines. I’m loving it. I love anywhere that has an identity and a past and there is a similarity between the East End overspill that modern Essex is made of and the people of Liverpool. Same humour, honesty and the same not-giving-a-fuck-about-you-or-your-crew and the same acceptance of anyone who wants to be a friend. All of this coupled with a love of football, music and culture that has emerged from this port town makes Liverpool a special place. The Scouse stereotype, like the Essex one, is a poison created by the chattering classes in a weak attempt to keep these people down. It’s not working and it hasn’t worked for hundreds of years despite the plebs from Milton Keynes trying their best. So up yours la you souless bags of water.