Loathing And Loathing In Liverpool

I am not a happy bunny.

As many of you will know, I travel a LOT in my work. I visit branches and attend meetings up and down the country, visiting towns, cities and sometimes villages.

It's true that I get lost every time I go to Southampton and there is a faint (and sometimes not so faint) aroma of wee and cabbage on the buses.

Yes it is true that I have never seen the sun (big yellow thing int sky for my Yorkshire readers) in Leeds and the toilets at the station are horrendously expensive (for 30p you can be damn sure that I'm going to have a poo).

It is true that it took me a soul crushing TEN HOURS to get to St Austell. On a Sunday.

But I have traveled from Dundee to Southend and without exception I have come away with a fondness for the place I have been.

Until Liverpool.

I am aware that this blog is likely to upset Scousers. I'm hoping that they won't hate me by the end of this, but if they do, I will shrug it off as I couldn't be more miserable anyway.

I also have to say that I have been looking forward to this trip FOREVER. Liverpool has a great reputation and everyone enthuses about how great, how friendly, how BOSS it is.

When I started to put my experiences on Twitter last night, Scousers (none of whom actually still live in Liverpool) told me that it was the greatest city in the world and that it was because I was in the wrong hotel! (The Adelphi. More on that later). In fairness I have to say that most were horrified that I was having a horrible time but one told me I was 'bang out of order'. Was I? I'll let you decide.

Apparently what happened to me could have happened anywhere.

But it didn't. It happened in Liverpool.

In the spirit of believing in second chances I was even prepared to let yesterday go, but I'm not convinced I will ever love Liverpool.

Here's why.

The Rain

It was pissing it down when I arrived. Yes, I have been rained on before and I am aware that it also rained in other parts of the country. But I wasn't in other parts of the country, I was in Liverpool. And it was incessant. Soul destroyingly incessant. No wonder so many comedians come from Liverpool. I firmly believe that they do a public service in keeping the suicide rates down. This rain was so pernicious it leached the colour out of my hair. So, not a great start, but not the end of the world.

The Hotel

I was genuinely excited about staying at The Adelphi. For a soft southern bastard (something else I was called) it's an iconic building. That and the Liver Building were the images conjoured up when I thought of the city.

It was horrible.

I went to check in and for the first time ever I was asked to state my nationality. This was in the 'overseas visitors' bit of the check in form. I pointed out that it didn't apply to me as I wasn't an overseas visitor and was quietly hissed at that it was a legal requirement (it isn't) and that if I didn't like it then I could always stay elsewhere (I couldn't due to lack of funds and their cancellation policy as it happens). I was livid. But as I was soaking wet and running late to meet the lovely @littlebroad84 I let it go. Britannia Hotels will be getting an email though, oh hell yes they will!

My room was a dirty cupboard with a bed. I can only assume I was in the Overseas Visitors section of the hotel. But there was a radiator to put my wet things on. It was even warm. 6th floor, but 2 of the 3 lifts worked. I consoled myself with the delusion that I was in the penthouse and got ready. In a tiny, filthy bathroom.

So I went out to meet my mate and introduced her to some more mates and we laughed and drank and a thoroughly good time was had by all.

As an aside, there was an incident in the newsagents which was nice which I feel I should include for balance.

I only had a ten pound note to pay for my filters, so nice Yorkshireman gave me 40p so the woman behind the till didn't have to empty it of change.

Oh, and the kebab on the way back was made of OSSUM. But that was it.

Got back to the hotel and as I was having a ciggy outside a man walks past (not, I hasten to add, one of the multitude who had asked me for 40p. Pan handlers in Liverpool have a very specific need which costs 40p it would seem. Six of them asked me for it. Maybe it is for filter purchase rescue. But I digress.) and belches.

I'm not disgusted by burps. I have the skill of doing them at will which The Lovely is totally jealous of and I was having a competition with my mate walking down the road.

But the first thought that went through my head was 'that sounded a bit wet'.

When I got back to my room I discovered that I had been puked on.

I'll let you take that in.

I. Had. Been. Puked. On.

But we'll come back to that as I had an incident on the way back to my room that I must tell you about.

When I exited the lift there was an imperious looking scouser woman. Probably mid sixties. This is the conversation we had.

Her: (imperiously) You.
Me: Hello.
Her: Do you work here?
Me: No, I'm a guest here.
Her: (pointing imperiously at her bag) Only I need that carrying.
Me: I. Don't. Work. Here.
Her: Tut.

Now, let us remember that I have been puked on. She's lucky I  walked away without telling her to fuck off. But just because she was being an old wanker it didn't mean I had to be a young one. So I walked to my room.

Which was freezing and full of slightly miffed ghosts.

It was actually the wind blowing around the top of the hotel but the bloody Woooooooooooo kept me awake half the night. And I couldn't wash my puke covered jumper as I couldn't dry it now the radiator was off so I had to just wipe it down and hope for the best.

It was so cold that I wore a (second, clean) jumper and socks to bed. I could have complained but I was so miserable by then that I just tried to sleep in what I was now thinking of as the garret rather than the penthouse.

Then the heating came on. At about 3am. So I ended up stripping off. This angered the ghosts and the Woooooooooooo got louder.

The breakfast was shit and I threw it up while cleaning my bag which I hadn't noticed the night before had also been puked on.

And when I checked out, it was the same woman who had checked me in.

And her demeanor hadn't improved overnight.

She barely looked at me as she hissed her thanks for staying. Maybe that is in the training manual for Overseas Visitors.

So is there some truth to the hypothesis that it was just because I was in the wrong hotel?

I'd say yes if it wasn't for the following.

Lunch in The Crown took 35 mins to arrive, with nary an apology for having to wait. It was burned.

People who bumped into me expecting me to apologise then screeching 'RUDE!' at me when I didn't. This happened twice.

Being ignored in shops. This happened three times.

The totally unlovely Lime St station.

And in case I didn't make it clear, I got puked on.

So with half an hour to go before my train there is now a thunderstorm. I bloody love thunderstorms, but this one feels wrong. It feels like it hates me. But then it is a Scouser thunderstorm.

Bang out of order?

You decide.