Bus Routes In Liverpool
407: Liverpool to West Kirby
Yes, I’d just been mistaken for an Everton fan, and therefore, a scouser. It was one of the worst moments of my life.
Yes, I’d just been mistaken for an Everton fan, and therefore, a scouser. It was one of the worst moments of my life.
Happy to be out of the rain, but with my glasses fully steamed up, it takes a few seconds to suss out that we’ve accidentally gate-crashed a funeral.
“Here you go,” Pat says, pointing to a clump of dots on his camera’s viewfinder, “I’m pretty sure that’s the top of Muhammad Ali’s head there. I waited hours for that and he’s pixelated to buggery.”
We pass a cafe called The Scotch Egg, which must have the most magnificent sign in the entire SK postcode. The ‘o’ in ‘Scotch’ is a cartoon of a scotch egg dressed in a kilt and tam o’shanter, while the wayward nature of its eggy limbs suggests it is mid-Highland Fling.
In the spring of 2008, my mate Steve and his teammates embarked on a record attempt which would take them to the very limits of human capability. They were going to attempt to break the crown green bowls endurance record.
Me and El have been planning to come down to Brighton for years. We stayed at a B&B here during the Big Daft Bus Trip back in 2002, and after having a great time on our brief stopover, we vowed to make a speedy return. A mere 16 years later, we’re back.
Not that there was anything wrong at all with Birchover or the campsite, but it was my first time sleeping under canvas, and I just wasn’t prepared for inadequate pillow facilities or to wake up covered in mid-sized spiders.
Putting the letter ‘e’ and a dash in front of a word doesn’t make the object in any way more modern or desirable. Just like adding ‘2000’ as a suffix to provincial club names in the 90s didn’t make fights less likely to break out at their funky house nights.
The building is so oppressive that I’m developing the early stages of architectural Stockholm Syndrome towards it. Sheffield Syndrome, I suppose.
From a polar bear bench pressing a giant key in Norilsk, the magnificent minimalism of Magnitogorsk’s black triangle, and the bag of wriggling puppies being drowned in a sack on Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky’s standard, Russia has an instinctive understanding of how to best represent yourself on a flag.