Of Time and the City Page #3

# Who used to be

Jack and Jill

# The folks who liked to be called

# What they have always been called

# The folks who live

# On the hill #

By the waters of Babylon,

where we sat down,

Yea we wept,

when we remembered Zion.

And they that carried us away captive

Required of us a song, saying

"Sing us one of the songs of Zion.'

But how shall we sing

in a strange land?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!

# For goodness sake

# I got the hippy hippy shakes

# Yeah, I got the shakes

# I got the hippy hippy shakes

# Oh, I can't sit still... #

And in an era when pop music

was still demure,

before Presley, before The Beatles.

John, Paul, George and Ringo -

not so much a musical phenomenon,

more like a firm of provincial solicitors.

(Fans scream)

When they are given

the freedom of the city,

Teddy Johnson and Pearl Carr,

Dicky Valentine, Lita Rosa,

Alma Cogan, sedate British Pop

was screamed away

on a tide of Mersey beat.

And the witty lyric

and the well crafted love song

seeming as antiquated

as antimacassars or curling tongs.

(# Binge:
Elizabethan Serenade)

After the rise of Rock and Roll,

my interest in popular music waned,

and as it declined,

my love of classical music increased.

Sibelius, Shostakovich,

and my beloved Bruckner.

Then, in my overwrought

adolescent state of mind,

I discovered Mahler

and responded completely

to his every overwrought note.

And in Classical Music, they have

such wonderful foreign names.

Amy Shuard, Otto Klemperer,

Elizabeth Schwarzkopf,

Anneliese Rothenberger,

Furtwangler and Munch,

Knappertsbusch and Gauk,

Robert Merrill and Jussi Bjorling -

The Pearl Fishers.

(# Elizabethan Serenade continues... )

But there was still ballroom dancing.

As staid as a funeral parlour,

hectares of tulle, Brylcreem

and the fishtail,

accompanied by Victor Silvester

and his famous orchestral whine,

as thin as a two-step,

as quick as a foxtrot.

(Chanting in unison) Liverpool!

Liverpool! Liverpool!

(Radio) 'A thousand throng Aintree

Racecourse for The Grand National.

'Even umbrella weather won't stop the

crowds coming to this racing classic.

All of Britain listened to

the Grand National,

on radios as small

and brown as Hovis.

Made bets, off-course

and absolutely illegal,

but it was only once a year

and a shilling win.

So where was the harm?

Sundew, E.S. B, Early Mist.

Even Mum opened her purse

for her annual little flutter and said,

"I really fancy

Quare Times... each way.'

(Archive radio commentary)

'... as they turn back towards

the fourteen jumps again...

Bob Danvers-Walker,

the voice of British Pathe,

Michael O'Hare, Peter O'Sullivan -

the voices of racing.

Listening to their controlled excitement

pouring through the wireless.

'And Quare Times, who cost his owner

only 300 guineas,

'has won the National...

Mum smiling at her small win,

and those who've lost think,

"Well, there's always next year...

"...God willing.'

The 12th of July and the Orange Day

Parade through the city.

Winding their way towards

Exchange Station in Southport

to toast King Billy in a perruque

and say,

"F*** the Pope

and all those Fenian bastards.'

Whatever, whoever they were.

And on the train coming home,

slightly the worse for wear,

howling at the papist moon.

But no religious divide in my street,

just quiet acceptance that Catholics

did everything in mysterious Latin,

while Protestants sang,

Jesus Wants me for a Sunbeam,

in plain, no nonsense English.

Although sometimes,

it felt as if one's entire world

was one, long Sunday afternoon.

Nothing to do. Nowhere to go.

Then Mum or one of my sisters

would say,

"Let's have a day out next week.'

And the ensuing seven days

were streaked and gilded.

But you still had to wait.

Those days, queuing was de rigueur.

Queuing modestly for modest

entertainment at the local fete.

In posh parts of the city,

like Stoneycroft,

where they sounded their 'H's

and knew what sculleries were.

A jumble sale, a fancy dress parade,

a foot race, with someone collapsing

with heat stroke

because the temperature rose

a couple of degrees above freezing.

The Scouts, darts

and a May Queen crowned.

A Nation deprived of luxury,

relishing these small delights.

Decorated prams and bicycles,

a smattering of applause.

All the fun of the fair.

So, to New Brighton.

Only a ferry ride away,

but happiness on a budget.

They board in black and white

then disembark in colour.

For things were changing.

World War II was over,

peace time and hardship eased.

And all day on the beach,

completely unsupervised

with no factor 200 sun block

and safe as houses...

...little baby Joyce.

Tarquin and Gemma,

being as yet, unknown.

Stiff at "Joy Time" with Aunty Lil.

Bathing Beauty Competitions,

in their day, harmless.

Now, as quaint as the bustle,

now, as unacceptable

as Chinese foot binding.

Pretty young women being kissed

by the Lord Mayor,

given a sash, a trophy

and some small, modest fame.

And oh... how we laughed!

A stroll along the Prom,

deckchairs and the floral clock.

Sand in the egg sandwiches.

Tea at three, then a snooze.

New Brighton rock as sweet as sick

and gobstoppers that would last

until your middle age.

A ride or two, then the miniature railway.

Then maybe to the dance,

maybe a jive,

maybe a gin and orange,

and maybe... Iove.

Kiss me quick and roll me over,

announce an engagement,

plan a wedding.

Taffeta skirts and blue serge,

youth that cannot end,

hopes as high as Blackpool Tower,

when all the world was young

and knew no bounds.

(# Baile and Degraine:

The House Band)

(# Swingtime dance music blares,

then fades... )

Then the journey home. Tired.

Cocoa and toast

and happiness unlimited.

(Waves loll gently)

"The golden moments pass

and leave no trace.' [Chekhov]

(# Bacarisse:
Concertino for Guitar

and Orchestra in A Minor)

(# Softly played classical guitar)

(# String accompaniment effortlessly

rises and melts away with the melody)

We had hoped for paradise.

We got the 'Anus Mundi'!

(# Orchestra dramatically restates

the guitar theme)

Rise, oh, rise.

Oh, surely thou shalt rise.

But not before the opening

of the Metropolitan Cathedral

of Christ the King,

inaugurated by Cardinal Heenan

in his brand new frock -

the Vatican's response to Schiaparelli.

I had lived my spiritual and religious life

under popes Pius Xll,

John XXlll

and Clitoris the umpteenth,

which is enough to turn anyone pagan.

As far as I knew, Holy Mother Church

still wanted me.

But I no longer wanted her.

For I was now a very happy,

very contented, born again atheist.

Thank God!

O come, all ye faithful.

Have another plateful.

(# Mahler:
Symphony No. 2

The Resurrection)

(# Subdued, unaccompanied

voices reverberate deeply)

(# Slowly rising brass chorale builds

to exhilarating climax)

(# Chorus sings with hushed voices)

(# Voices rise, defiant and resilient)

Municipal architecture.

Dispiriting at the best of times,

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