With the Merseyside delegation in town I have a small confession to make. I once lived in Liverpool. Between 2000 and 2003 I was a resident of L7 and a full time attendee of Liverpool Art School.
Making the move west wasn’t a decision I took lightly. Football had and still has a huge bearing on a lot of my life choices. As a United season ticket holder the city was both a blessing (a relatively short commuting distance from Manchester compared with other university towns) and a curse with at least half of its residents actively despising my beloved club and city.
Despite surprised reactions from friends and family I was determined to use the move to assess for myself whether the stereotypical views of scousers were true to life given my only real experience in the city had been on school trips. So were they? Well, yes and no.
The tracksuit part definitely was. Grown men on my course unashamedly gave jeans the swerve in favour of brightly coloured and often obscenely priced Lacoste tracksuits. The attitude was best summed up by one of my classmates who came out with the following on the coach as we returned from a field trip: “Ah, Liverpool, the only place in Britain where yer can wear yer trackie with pride.”
Beyond that though the locals took me to their hearts in a way I never thought they would. And as the weeks went by it became clear that Merseyside and Greater Manchester share a lot of common ground. The trouble is both sides are just too reluctant to admit it.
My classmates from Huyton and Wavertree were as fiercely passionate about music and football as I was and weren’t shy in expressing opinions. I liked that.
However, there was the underlying natural football animosity between us that raised its head in spectacular fashion when our sides met. Tribal mentality took over, horrendous things were said, blows were narrowly avoided and it was often a good two weeks before things returned to normal.
When I wasn’t too hungover I played football for my local Sunday League side. It was run by a Mancunian and comprised a steady mix of students and locals.
I’ll never forget the time our team’s big Scouse centre half berated the referee in hilarious fashion. The ref had been supplied to us by the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts. To say he was light on his feet would have been an understatement. The exchange went something a little bit like this.
- Look, if I was a proper referee I’d have given a foul...
- Yeah?! And if I was a proper man I’d knock your fucking head off.
Such comedy moments weren’t restricted to the football pitch either. Taxi drivers came into their own in Liverpool. Each one thought he was funnier than the last, often with some justification, and we had some cracking conversations.
One quirk-pot once pulled over, switched his meter off and gave us a full lecture about the construction of Sefton Park. Another was more scathing. “Worra’yer studying?” he asked my ex-girlfriend. “Childhood Studies,” she replied. “Why, did yer not have one?” was his retort. Fair play, it made me laugh.
When I think back there are a number of things I miss about life at the wrong end of the East Lancs. The back street pubs on the grand Georgian cobbled streets off Hope Street. The friendly nature of seemingly anyone over 50. The compact city centre. The weather, bizarrely.
I have a lot of time too for the Anglican Cathedral and on a clear day loved getting the rickety lift to the top for a good old stare out to sea. Its views are unrivaled.
But my United links and excess of civic pride meant I couldn’t settle down in the long term over there no matter how much my Irish girlfriend at the time wanted us to. The threat of inter-city mither was never far away especially in suburban pubs.
But would either tribe want it any other way? I broke up with the Irish girl, moved home and, to this day, have only been back to Merseyside on football business which included Abbey’s recent trip to Prescot for the reverse of today’s fixture.
Here’s hoping the Gorton Rossoneri fair better than they did last time out.
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