SECTION TWO
sm
COLUMN
FIFTY-NINE, MAY 1, 2001
(Copyright © 2001 Al Aronowitz)
THE GREENING OF LIVERPOOL
I can
remember when English pubs used to smell of old fashioned beer. That was in the
days when the mere act of passing a saloon bar on a hot day was to find oneself
assailed by the reek of stale ale. Depending on the state of one's stomach, that
warm fruity blast of alcohol could be either titillating or debilitating.
Nowadays many pubs are furnished with electric fans which simply swallow the
boozy bouquet in one gulp, leaving the air as sanitised of aroma as a pint of
chilled lager.
Drinkers in post-war Liverpool had the choice of imbibing beers produced by a
handful of breweries, Higsons, Walkers, Bents and Threlfals who excercised a
virtual monopoly. Not that it mattered much to the beery brotherhood who rarely
exercised their limited choice. Instead, they usually chose to engage a
particular beer, and often stayed married to it for life. Taking up beer
drinking in England is a rite of passage on a par with marriage, the difference
being that while men often leave their wives for the delights of the bar, very
few ever make the reverse trip.
I can still recall the fierce arguments concerning the relative merits of Bent's
Bitter over, say, Walkers. Those parochial arguments, conducted with the same
fervour that Parisian cafe society was debating existentialism, left me cold, as
Bitter simply gave me heartburn. I never really got into drinking until the
eighties when the lager revolution dispatched the enfeebled aristocrats of
English beers to the guillotine.
As late as 1970 there were bars in Liverpool which barred entry to women and
there were many more which hosted men only rooms. I don't think the ladies were
missing too much as the landlords made hardly any concessions to the women. For
instance, all of the glasses in the pubs were designed for men. If a woman
wanted a gin and tonic she usually received it in whisky glass so small that
after the tonic had been added the liquid level was such that the addition of
ice, had such a decadent item even existed, would have been impossible.
By the seventies improvements were being made, and although the spirit glasses
were still only designed to hold a double whisky, paper cocktail umbrellas were
being unfurled even in the driest of pubs. Almost surreptitiously the French and
Germans achieved, in the shape of wine and lager, the first successful invasion
of England in a thousand years. The most successful of the early Wine
bar/Bistros in Liverpool was a huge place called Kirklands, which had once been
a bakers by appointment to Her Majesty Queen Mary.
In a thrice English Cottage loaves had been usurped by Baguettes and, overnight,
women drinkers were de rigeur. The bar of Kirklands was always strewn
with gorgeous wine-bibbing women. The ambience of the place was a cocktail of
Gallic flair and Scouse humour. Unlike the Norman conquest, the continental
dominance of England's watering holes was not to endure, as the remnants of
alcohol's Ancien Régime were planning a counter assault on the alien
viticulture.
Although created by promotional consultants catering to the needs of the English
market, the next wave of invaders arrived bearing the insignia of the Emerald
Isle as theme pubs, whose motifs consisted of Shamrock and Guinness, burgeoned
almost overnight. The speed of the assault was such that it felt as if old
Liverpool had never been. Pubs that had once borne mundane English names were
now called 'Dirty Nellie's' or 'Scruffy Murphy's' as despite the English
breweries' propagation of all things Irish the old racial hatreds relentlessly
insinuated themselves into the mock and mocking nomenclature. I mean, who in
Ireland would dream of trying to entice patrons into a pub which sounded like it
might well be playing mien host to the bubonic plague?
The truth of the idea that ideology creates its own history was never made more
clear than in the creation of these sham shrines to Shamrock, which were
transformed so hastily that some of the three legged cooking pots, those
signifiers of 'Irishness' which festooned the mock beams, still bore the labels,
'Made in Taiwan'. I was recently drinking in an Irish theme pub called 'The
flute and Firkin' in Hardman street. It is a huge barn of a place, and as I
listened to the newly arrived students extolling the authenticity of their
surroundings I wanted to scream at them,
" Ten years ago this was a Ford dealers'!"
Instead I allowed my mind to drift back to the eighties and the four
Our
language
bestows our cultural
identity on us
wonderful
summers I had spent in the company of my wife on the West Coast of Ireland.
Marian was born in Ireland but at the age of two moved with her family to
Southern England and so speaks with a pure home counties accent, which serves to
underline my belief that the geographical location of one's birth is immaterial
as it is the language we inherit which bestows on us our cultural identity. I
mention this because the only adverse encounter I ever had in a real Irish pub
occurred in County Sligo when, on our entry into the bar, a local Yahoo burst
into rendition of "These are my mountains", with the obvious intent of
putting two Brit interlopers in their place. He was sorry he did because Marian,
her beautifully modulated voice dripping with venom, looked him straight in his
eyes and spat,
"They used to be mine too but I wanted to see what
life was like without the smell of pigs!"
The
one man choir blinked and spent the rest of the time that we were there staring
at the bland head of his Guinness.
That incident apart, I have only the fondest memories of Irish pubs. I loved the
casual utility of those small pubs which doubled as grocers or post offices
where the genial host would serve you beer and then bacon rashers lovingly
wrapped in brown paper and string parcels. I remember too the pub where we
bought butter and the lady behind the bar wrapped it in a cabbage leaf to keep
it cool.
Of course not all Irish watering holes are small and folksy. One of the best
times I ever had was when Marian's cousins took us to a country club in Tralee.
I suppose it was the Irish love of dancing that helped determine the design of
the place because there was a huge dance floor and a stage where the band
played. I was in good fettle, having had a fair amount of whisky.
The combination of Bushmills and Guinness was enough to keep me dancing all
night. Then came the moment I will never forget. The band struck up with a
lively tune and I immediately went into my Saturday Night Fever routine and just
as I was emerging from a Travolta twirl I noticed that everybody was standing
stock still and singing. It was the national anthem! Everybody laughed at my
choreography for clowns and simply put it down to the fact that I was a Brit.
Imagine boogying to the Stars and Stripes in Texas! I can hear the cocking of
hammers from here.
Quite the most amazing experience we shared was when we were camping near the
town of Newcastle West. We had been drawn to the town because of the beautiful
river that flowed alongside the main road. At that point the river was very
shallow and a mass of shimmering ripples as it bored and bounced over the
numerous rocks. Many species of ducks abounded. When we went into the local pub
we were greeted by the landlord and his wife with great friendliness. They had
only moved back to Ireland that very year after having spent thirty years in
London. They invited us to attend what they called the Duck Dance. At first I
thought it was a gathering of Chuck Berry enthusiasts as he was the only person
I knew who performed a dance by that name.
However, it transpired the Landlord and his wife were raising funds to ensure
the safety and maintenance of the ducks we had seen thriving on the river. We
agreed and went back to the tent to but on our best duds and before long we were
back into the pub which was by then a heaving throng of drinkers. There was a
darts competition and the entrance fee was fifty pence with the winning pair
taking all.
Now I don't know whether it was the fact that we were camping in a country where
it rains so often that it is the only place on earth where being born with
webbed feet is not considered to be a disability, or that we simply looked
needy, but the landlady did her damndest to help us win the cash prize by
pairing Marian and myself with the two best darts players in the pub. Needless
to say we lost badly as my skill with a dart is only surpassed by my expertise
with a croquet mallet and Marian had never played in her life.
At about eleven o'clock everybody went to a local hall where there was laid out
the most stupendous array of food I've ever seen. There was everything from
chicken wings to beef sandwiches, and, ironically, confait of duck! I
Would
it be possible
to find fish
and chips in Tokyo?
have
never seen so much food and drink put away as that night. The party was still
going on at two in the morning when the landlady asked us if we'd like to go
back to the pub for a 'stay behind'! At five in the morning I was blowing for
tugs to tow me back to the tent but mien hosts insisted that we stay in their
spare bedroom. I was so grateful as our tent was not only likely to be damp and
uninviting, it was at least a mile away!
As I dragged myself back to the reality of the 'Flute and Firkin' I saw two
Japanese tourists tucking into chicken Madras and rice. How very cosmopolitan I
thought, and then wondered if it would be possible to find fish and chips in
Tokyo. I don't think so because the Japanese are more resistant to alien
cultural forms than us. As I was observing the Japanese tourists one of them
placed on the table a wireless lap top computer and began to dial in to the
internet, no doubt checking his e-mails in Kyoto. Clever enough to do that, I
thought, but not smart enough to realise that you are being ripped off by
subscribing to an adman's version of England. Or maybe that's what he was
writing about!
Dear Mamasan, please buy up all the old Samurai gear you
can get your hands on as I am opening a bar called 'The Mikado' in Liverpool.
Brits love all that imitation stuff.
Yours truly
Yoki
I suppose Marshall McLuhan was right, the world is a global village but the problem is that so many of us are being treated as global village idiots. ##
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