A weekend of Kop and curlers

Working 12-hour days lately, and doing so through a horrible bug for the last few of them, has left me unable to write here - sorry about that. So this entry is a few days out of date. But it's worth mentioning last weekend, spent in Liverpool, and what I learned from it.

Firstly, Liverpool as a city has changed beyond recognition if you haven't been there for a while. The last time I spent any time there during daylight hours and did anything other than head straight to Anfield, it still had some of the vestiges of the decay, neglect and depression of the Thatcher era. Don't get me wrong, walk around Anfield and you'd think nothing has changed, but that's a peculiar exception brought about by the club buying so many of the houses in the area for a stadium development that has not yet, and may never happen, and leaving them empty. But check out the city centre and the docks in particular, and you'd think you were in a difference city to the one Mrs T so shamefully abandoned.

Our little group was fortunate to have two local guides, one of whom got me into the Kop for the first time in my life, while the other 'sacrificed' her time to spend it shopping with the girls as we did the footy thing. I did though, before the game, have a bit of a wander round town with the group, and there was one thing in particular that raised eyebrows. It seems that, among a certain stratum of Liverpool culture, the done thing if you're going out on Saturday night is to show the world you're doing so by wandering round during the day with enormous curlers in your hair. You may think this makes one look ridiculous, but evidently it's a bit of a status symbol to the cognoscenti. 'Look at me - I'm going out. You're not even getting ready yet, are you? You're clearly going to sit in and play Scrabble or something, you sad bastard.'

I'm sure there's an entry in itself which could be written about how this is perhaps driven by the inexplicable televisual celebration of a certain type of nitwit exemplified by Desperate Scousewives, Geordie Shore and the like, but I'd only be treading a path that's well-worn on these pages. Our Scouse friends, of course accustomed to this sight, unlike us southerners/Spaniards, explained the whole thing with a slight air of resignation. We decided that we'd be able to chance going out for a bit of dinner without having first indulged in this Liverpool ritual, and managed to have a few drinks, a bit of grub and a chat without being pointed and laughed at, despite our peremptory preparations. (I say peremptory - we actually prepared for going out by going to the pub...)

Anyway, thanks so much H and R for being such splendid hosts. We had a great time. Liverpool may have its curler set, but it's also of course very well known for the wit and friendliness of its citizens, and two finer examples of those qualities I'll warrant are not to be found anywhere in the city.