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Published: October 19th 2009
Scousers Here, Scousers There .......
Poolside Planet Hollywood - Vegas trip No.1I am often referred to over here not by my given birth name of Matthew, the abbreviated Matt or even my universally known nickname of Piggy but simply by the word ‘Scouser’ (invariably pronounced
Scouzer). Come to think of it so is Phil, together we are
The Scousers. Of course it’s not true, the term a reference to our heritage that having been raised across the water in Ellesmere Port would no doubt make any self respecting Liverpudlian turn in his grave.
American’s appear fascinated with the regional labels, accents and traditional rivalries that exist within our tiny fair isle and the prospect of the imminent Belmont Shore arrival of big brother and his pal Spike was generating some local interest and excitement. Not since Shea Stadium over four decades ago had the coming together of four guys from Liverpool heralded such a buzz.
When my brother first informed me of the likelihood of his forthcoming visit being made in the company of a colleague who I’d never met with whom he shares hotel rooms whilst on the road I was welcoming to the idea, a friend of big Jerry’s
is a friend of mine but time to ponder and picture the possible scenarios of some hairy arsed scouse builder operating under the mantle of Spike unwittingly leaving crap stains and pubes on my toilet pan not to mention soiled undies lying around my living room floor had made me think again……and again.....and again. What if ?
Jon had accompanied his e mail informing me of his possible companion with the words “he’s a sound lad Spike” but that statement just caused me run to repeatedly turn over in my mind the plethora of vast differences in ideals and personality traits that my brother and I have. Talk about chalk and cheese. What’s ‘sound’ to him I reasoned to myself may not particularly be ‘sound’ to me.
As it turned out I needn’t have worried. Spike, who earned his nickname shortly after dropping one of the smelliest fart’s imaginable which, when the fumes had finally seeped across to infiltrate his father’s air space caused pops in the manner of Tom and Jerry’s bulldog friend Butch in reference to his puppy son Spike to exclaim ‘That’s my boy’ revealed himself upon first meet in LAX to be a polite,
fresh faced and bespectacled young man who, and I hope he’ll forgive me for saying this, brought to mind the image of a grown up Billy Bunter.
The reason for the timing of their visit, indeed the fact that Spike was accompanying Jerry at all was because another workmate, this one a Glaswegian ‘jock’ was getting married in Las Vegas the weekend following their arrival. But that was then, for now there was more pressing business, Y & T a band responsible for a big part of the soundtrack of our lives were playing in San Diego, not that Spike had even heard of them, and late on Saturday afternoon less than twenty four hours after their arrival the four of us hit the freeway on the one and a half hour drive down there. Matt’s travel desk had booked two rooms at the Holiday Inn, something which in hindsight was a dreadfully expensive mistake and after checking in and ditching the bags we immediately headed to the venue.
4th & B is a mid sized music/concert hall on the outskirts of San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter which holds around a thousand punters and which has apparently been subject
to a recent change of ownership, purchased by either i) a rookie promoter possessing not the slightest whiff of business acumen or ii) one with an burning ambition to become bankrupt at the earliest possible opportunity. When we arrived a small group was gathered on the pavement outside smoking and chatting as is the norm in these neurotically health conscious times and a tiny queue had formed at the window beneath the words ‘Booking office’. We joined the end of the line and noticed as each person peeled away inserting their tickets into their wallets or purses that they were all wearing either broad smiles or looks of total bemusement. Soon it was our turn.
“Four tickets for tonight please” I said to the girl on the other side of the glass as Jerry and I approached the booth
“They’re twenty dollars for seating or free for standing, which would you like ?”
Puzzled and not believing what Id just heard I replied “Huh ? What do you mean they’re
free for standing ?
She repeated herself and minutes later after thirty years of spending untold fortunes on concert tickets around the globe we found ourselves
Scousers Here, Scousers There .......
Soundtrack of our lives - Y&T take a bow. entering our first free gratis gig. Mind you, if we had have paid for seating I’d have been returning to the ticket office for a refund immediately on entering the joint, the twenty dollar ticket seating area taking the form of ten neat rows of canteen style chairs placed all on the same level which, as soon as the band hit the stage were infiltrated by non paying standing members of the audience anxious for a closer viewpoint.
Any savings made on the ticket were almost eaten up minutes after the show ended as we made our way to the main Gaslamp District to finish the evening off. Several ‘rickshaw’ style cycle taxis were slowly cruising the streets like kerb crawler’s looking for prospective pick up’s and unaware of our exact locus and thinking it would be an entertaining way to reach our planned destination, The Gaslamp for real, we flagged one down and climbed aboard. Less than two minutes later and having already ridden past the exact same spot where we’d boarded the driver pulled to a halt,
“That’ll be forty five dollars” he said nonchalantly holding his hand over his shoulder as we climbed down from
Scousers Here, Scousers There .......
Colleagues and friends - Vegas trip No.1 the carriage.
Is he having a laugh ? We queried what he had just said thinking it was a slip of the tongue or an unmasked attempt to rip off some tourists and he matter of factly explained that forty five dollars was his minimum charge, something he’d conveniently neglected to mention when we’d climbed aboard a handful of seconds earlier. He obviously was having a laugh and having told him as much in as polite a manner as possible and in a bid to placate him as well as deter him from calling the fuzz we begrudgingly split the difference and handed over twenty bucks.
When the evening eventually came to an end, or at least when it
should have been coming to an end the three of us, an inebriated Phil having sensibly called it a night and headed home in a taxi alone, returned to the hotel with a big predicament. It was three o’clock in the morning and in just two and a half hours time Jerry’s beloved Manchester City would be taking on their arch nemesis United in the match of the day, the Manchester derby.
My intrepid research prior to leaving
Long Beach had sought out an English Pub, The Shakespeare, that would be showing the game live should we, or at least Jerry still be in a position and of a mind to watch the five thirty am kick off and with the undoubted influence of three bellies full of ale splashing around inside us the unanimous decision was made, we were up for it, a decision that started a two hour vigil on the steps of the hotel watching the sun rise, the bleary eyed flight crews head to the airport and the remainder of the even blearier eyed late night revelers arrive home for their beds.
The Shakespeare when we finally arrived just after kick off proved to be a typical mock English Pub situated in a residential part of town, familiar dark wood walls, draught beers and multiple wall mounted TV’s. We entered and were immediately faced with San Diego’s very own adaptation of the Stretford End, the place almost packed to capacity with the red and white shirts of Manchester United, a daunting sight when you’re walking in with someone who immediately starts cheering for the blue of City. With the bar closed until, God
forbid, 8am plenty of coffee was consumed during one of the most entertaining derbies in recent memory which, unfortunately for Jerry ended in a controversial 4-3 win for United, Michael Owen’s exquisite winner following just seconds after Jerry’s celebratory howls at Cities injury time leveler had died away.
We were still stood discussing the game half an hour after it had ended when the bar opened. It was 8am, Chelsea and Spurs were kicking off and we returned to the hotel two hours later just as Phil was, as fresh as a daisy opening his curtains.
Recovery was an important and necessary survival instinct for the early part of the week as on Thursday afternoon we boarded the Jet Blue flight for Las Vegas, my second visit to the City of Sin in three weeks. As it happened I did so with a very heavy heart. I’d checked my e mail prior to heading to the airport and amongst the junk and work related mail’s there was one from Trevor entitled simply ‘Golf Draw’. I recognized the title as being that of a chain of e mails between us that had commenced back in April prior to my
trip home and opened it expecting another laugh out loud example of his acerbic wit. Instead, it was a shattering one liner that read simply, grammar unaltered “hi matt, bad news mate B Watson died last night of an heart attack at work trev”
I was stunned and found myself just staring open mouthed into the screen as pictures of Brian flashed into my mind. The epitomy of the term gentle giant Brian was only forty three years old and was one of the guys on the annual summer golf tour whose company I most enjoyed, a person who whenever I met or bumped into intentionally or otherwise would always cause me to greet with genuine pleasure. I was deeply shocked and saddened.
After spending a handful of years working in China he’d recently returned to the UK with his Chinese wife Apples in tow, a delightfully happy girl who he’d introduced me to on my trip home in the summer and they’d seemed deeply in love. Life just didn’t seem fair but, as I mused over things later in the day it made me realize one thing; that life is short, that you never know what is
Scousers Here, Scousers There .......
With some Chelsea fans in The Shakespeare. around the corner and that my own particular strategy for living, to live for today is the only way for me to go.
Whilst on the subject and although still in many ways feeling like a new starter last month saw the first anniversary of my employ with f and e come and go. I remember being told as a teenager that time goes quicker as you get older, something that has certainly rung true as my life has progressed but surely there has to come a time when it simply can’t get any faster ? If there is it’s certainly not at forty six.
Vegas, despite being a unique and surreal place where (almost) anything goes, and I’d bet if you really looked hard enough anything could go, is somewhere I would choose to visit for a maximum of only three nights at any one time. How people can spend two week holidays there is beyond me, even the five nights that Jerry and Spike were staying seemed excessive. Our lodgings for the trip was Bally’s Hotel, situated just off the main drag in the centre of the strip and on arrival and in a bid to
soak up maximum sun time we headed immediately for the pool. Walking out from the air conditioned chill of the hotel into the desert heat it appeared we’d entered a poolside area reserved exclusively for Saga Holidays, gently piped music accompanying an atmosphere not much livelier than that of a morgue. It was not what was expected.
As mentioned earlier, the reason Spike had joined Jerry and for the timing of their trip was because their workmate Alan was tying the knot with his fiance Jacqui. When we’d left Long Beach and despite Jon’s assurances that I was invited I was still unsure as to whether I was actually going to attend, there was every chance after all that I would feel literally like ‘a spare prick at a wedding’ but I decided at the last minute to take my SLR camera and if nothing else, to take some pictures as practice for my developing hobby which could also prove a nice memento for the happy couple. After spending the morning attempting to clear my head by strolling up and down the corridors of Miracle Mile, shop after shop not proving a particularily effective antidote for getting to bed
at 5.30am I made my way to the five star Bellagio Hotel for the arranged two thirty meet up.
I found the wedding party easily enough, suits, ties, flowers and evening dresses not being the normal attire for a Friday afternoon in Vegas and identified and introduced myself to the groom. I explained I was Jon’s brother, he thankfully concurred he knew I was coming and I then took many informal pictures of the ceremony held on one of the balconies of the Bellagio whilst the famous fountains danced in the background to musical accompaniment selected by the bride and groom. Afterwards, as the newlyweds disappeared for the ‘proper’ photographs we got talking to the rest of the group, accompanied them up to the honeymoon suite, a huge three bathroomed room with spectacular views of the strip and the desert mountains beyond and prepared ourselves for a party.
The bride’s brother, a quiet unassuming lad who his mother later let slip to me at the same time as making me promise not to let on to him that I knew, was in fact the world’s No.2 ranked snooker player Stephen MacGuire and having nominated himself as barman he
assumed his position and began handing out drinks like there was no tomorrow. Food was served, the best I’ve ever eaten at a wedding reception and devoured causing Jon, still obviously feeling the effects of the previous night to sink into relapse and inform me he was heading home for a quick snooze. He promised he would be back in an hour but due to a malfunctioning alarm wasn’t seen again until the following morning.
By nine o’clock ties had been loosened, shoes shed, cake cut and speeches made and I was seriously struggling to understand what anyone, with the exception of Spike, in the room was saying. If you’ve ever seen Rab.C.Nesbitt or Trainspotting you’ll know that Glaswegian to a non Scot is a difficult brogue to understand. Glaswegian pickled in alcohol is nigh on impossible. See Ye Jimmy ! Thankfully it all proved academic half an hour or so later when the first bars of The Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling’ erupted out of the stereo and the room literally went crazy.
I told the bride and groom as I thanked them for their hospitality upon leaving well into the early hours that there was
only Scousers and Glaswegians who could make a complete stranger feel so welcome on such an intimate occasion and I meant it, they were all genuinely decent folk and Spike and I made our way back to Bally’s happy in the knowledge we’d made some new friends.
Finally, after a day spent poolside at the wedding parties Flamingo Hotel, a different world altogether from Bally’s and far more related to the image that the word Vegas conjures in the mind, loud music, cocktails and pretty girls the three of us spent a final wild night at Rain Nightclub and eventually fell into bed at 9am. I was simply relieved to be boarding my return flight home later that afternoon with the promise of two nights solitary confinement all alone in my apartment. No need to be clambering over bodies sleeping on the floor just to get to the bathroom.
My first day back in Long Beach reluctantly marked the start of my return to school. Frustrated with my inability to utilize the multitude of functions available on my Canon camera and hindered by a lack of patience that renders me unable to sit down for half an hour
to read and take in the instruction manual I had, a couple of months earlier, enrolled on a six week night class course in the art of digital SLR photography. Still shedding the effects of the Vegas trip after a long day at work it was the last thing I felt like doing.
When I finally found the classroom I entered and discovered myself to be one of only two males amongst the fourteen strong class all of whom were sat patiently with their large expensive lumps of black plastic laid in front of them, all that is except for a little old lady who was sat next to me and who had on the desk in front of her a simple point and shoot accompanied by it’s user booklet. I was unsure if she was there by error or if she was using the course as an excuse to get out of the house and meet people, a tactic sometimes used by confused old people but the class advert had specifically stated that the six week course would cover the finer points of Digital SLR photography, apertures, lenses, shutter speeds etc etc none of which had any relevance
to a simple point and shoot and it wasn’t too long before this started to become apparent to the old girl.
“You’re gonna have to go shopping at the weekend aren’t ya?” I told her in a bid to offer a touch of humor and quell her obvious frustration at having wasted fifty bucks on a totally irrelevant twelve hour night class, a comment which drew a smile and chuckle that said “f*** off smartarse” but which obviously had no effect. My guess is that she either realized the error of enrolling or that she’s dead, maybe both because three weeks into the course and she hasn’t been seen since. But I’m sticking at it, this Saturday is a two hour field trip where we adjourn to a local nature reserve to take some snaps so hopefully there may begin to be some noticeable improvement in the standard of ‘on the blog’ snaps in the not too distant future.
Jon and Spike returned from Vegas on Tuesday evening mere shadow’s of their former selves, broken shell’s of the men they once were intent on one thing, a swift, full and complete recovery. The problem was that there
was precious little time for that before their return flight to the UK, three nights to be precise and after a relatively subdued Wednesday when we celebrated Olivia’s fourteenth birthday with a night at a restaurant in Seal Beach the time arrived for their farewell evening which as it just so happened coincided with Spike’s 28th birthday.
When I arrived home from work the farewell cum birthday party, assisted by some willing neighbours was well under way on the beach and it continued into the small hours on Second Street, ending with a three sheets to the wind Spike blotting his copybook by uncharacteristically discovering an aggressive side to his nature that had shown no sign of surfacing in the previous two weeks. Kids and ale hey !!
Having hit the sack at 2.30am I awoke just over four hours later, struggled to lift my head from the pillow to look into the corner of the room where Jerry lay prone on his mattress and then over to the clock. It read 6:50 and for the second time in a week his alarm had failed to go off. We were running late and so began a frantic and
hazy dash to LAX.
Finally, having been pulled over and searched by LAPD on our approach to the airport departure terminals we arrived and as I shook Spike by the hand and hugged my brother farewell a large tear began to form in the corner of my eye. Embarrassed at such a display of public emotion and keen not to let the guys see I was heartbroken to see them leave I managed to disguise it by cutting short the goodbye’s, returning immediately to the Jeep and driving away and it wasn’t until I was half way to the office that I realized it wasn’t actually a tear of sorrow but one of pure unadulterated joy. After a month of visitor’s I was about to get my flat back !!
That evening I went to see LA Galaxy and Becks as they celebrated reaching the end of season play offs, an integral feature of all American Sports, for the first time in five years. I’d contacted Chad in the morning and he’d kindly provided me with two freebie tickets and was bringing in my laundry when I bumped into Adam on the stairs. To cut a long story
short upon his revelation that he’d love to see a Galaxy game I invited him to join me.
Adam, a guy who has never been mentioned in these pages before is quite a character. Thirty five years old, very intelligent and fluent in four languages he’s an unemployed teacher who currently earns his keep loading mail trucks in the dead of night. He moved into the apartment next door to Phil’s at the beginning of the summer renting a single room in a two bedroomed place that now sleeps four, Trinka and her two daughters in one room, Adam in the other. He likes to swim and can often be seen around the neighbourhood dressed in just his purple Speedo’ trunks and his matching swimming goggles, not too pretty a sight especially if you’ve just eaten. He also likes to drink and to partake of the occasional ‘bong’ which, I think, is exactly what he’d been doing for most of the day that we went to The Galaxy.
All was well when we took our seats and ordered a beer. The air was warm, the beer was cold and Beckham was on fire. Then, as half time approached
we ordered a hot dog and another beer and Adam, unbeknownst to me swiftly and silently metamorphicised from Dr Jeckyll into Mr Hyde. The words became slurred almost to incomprehensibility, the eyes had adopted a distinctly familiar tell tale glaze and the beer had already been spilled when the girl next to me leaned across and whispered in a very concerned voice,
“Does you friend want a napkin?”
Wondering what she was talking about I looked to my left to see a glassy eyed Adam attempting to put the last bite of dog into his mouth but succeeding only in stabbing the soggy bread and sausage butt into each and every part of his face bar his mouth. His head was covered from neck to hairline in mustard and bread crumbs as were his trousers and his sandaled feet paddled in the puddle of beer at his feet. Dear oh dear. Quite how I got him home I’ve no idea but needless to say he told me the next day he remembered absolutely nothing of events after ordering the hot dog.
Sunday 11th October was Long Beach marathon day and I was awoken from a slumber by
a text from Megan informing me that her and Nicole were at the corner awaiting Danielle’s arrival. I’d said the previous day at the F & G end of summer (alcohol free) party that I’d join them to cheer Danielle on in her bid to defeat the twenty six miles and unfortunately they hadn’t forgotten.
Within minutes of my joining them Danielle appeared looking remarkably fresh considering she’d already ran ten miles. We waved, cheered and shouted encouragement from the grass verge and watched as she ran with a beaming smile on her face straight on by. For a split second I was hurt thinking how terribly rude it was that she hadn’t stopped for a chat but then I came to my senses and realized she still had sixteen miles to go. Almost as soon as she’d passed Megan and Nicole saddled up and set off in pursuit to follow her along the route in a show of support and I was suddenly left standing all alone in the street at eight thirty on a Sunday morning. It was at this point I made a decision, a decision that was to be the indirect cause of a lot
Scousers Here, Scousers There .......
World No. 2 snooker player Stephen MacGuire. of pain and embarrassment.
Not wanting to go back to my pit on such a lovely morning I shouted after the girls that I’d catch them up, returned home to get my bike and my camera and, wired for sound with my iPod attached to my belt did just that.
The race route took me to parts of the Long Beach suburbs that I’ve never even knew existed let alone been to as well as succeeded in providing me with some welcome Sunday morning exercise. I contacted the girls who by now had been joined by Danielle’s boyfriend Aaron and told them I’d meet them by the sixteen mile mark and was on my way there when I saw a girl amongst the myriad’s of runners who caught my attention. Actually, to say she caught my attention is a bit of an understatement, I was mesmerized.
She was wearing her socks pulled up to the knees, tight black shorts and a white vest struggling to control her obviously ample bosom. Her pony tailed peroxide hair was held in place by a black headband and as she glided into view all alone standing out like a beacon of
light she looked a vision of seventies femininity. Thinking like a member of the Paparazzi I knew I had to get the shot.
I first saw her as the runner’s were approaching a set of traffic signals where the route took a ninety degree right hand turn and in an instant my simple plan was formed. Scoot across the car park of the shopping precinct that flanked the corner, dismount, prepare and wait for the vison to come into view.
I’d built up quite a head of speed as I nonchalantly rode, one hand on the handlebars across the parking lot and my mind must have been elsewhere because the first I thing knew about the eighteen inch forty five degree drop in ground level was when my front wheel leveled out on the lower tier. It was definite WTF moment as time appeared to stand still and as all within the space of a split second the realization dawned exactly what had happened as the bike wobbled and veered out of control.
If I’d had both hands on the handlebars I may well have been able to stay afloat but I didn’t and getting up close
and personal with the asphalt was unavoidable. I must have let out a dull cry as I hit the ground, a sound that was accompanied moments later by the metallic clink of eight hundred dollars of camera that was hanging around my neck smashing into the ground and as I sat amongst the twisted metal and spinning wheels covered with fresh cuts and bruises to various parts of my anatomy my first concern was for my camera. Fortunately it was okay but my body wasn’t and the desire to let out a full volume ‘aaargh’ was hard to contain.
Marathon’s invariably attract large crowds of spectators and Long Beach was no different and I looked up to see tens of people who lined the streets and who seconds earlier had been cheering and shouting encouragement to the runners about turned and staring at the unfortunate Englishman who lay bloodied in the mangled wreckage. In a bid to minimize the attention that was beaming my way and maybe to lessen the embarrassment that nobody was actually doing anything to assist me I said aloud to no one in particular “It’s okay, I’m okay” as a guy moved in from behind
to pass me my sunglasses which he’d found twenty yards away.
I thanked him, saddled up and still in shock departed the scene of accident. The girl had disappeared and I had a picture to get.
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Curly
non-member comment
Better late than never!
Alright Billy lad,Billy 'ere.Just started reading your US blog!!! just up to you moving in your flat.Not a bad read lad,saved me buying a book for this nightshift im on at the mo.How you keeping anyway,like i said,im notuo to speed yet and wont be for some time by the looks of it! How do you find time to do all this writing? Anyway,i emailed Phil last week on the address on the card he gave me last time i met up with him in London and had no reply,so he's either very busy,he's changed his email or he's ignoring me! Pass the message on Bill. Curly \n/