The Mersey is wonderful, what the Tyne could be if it really put the effort in. We watched the sun set over it as we sat in Cargo Bar and Grill and ate a truly astonishing amount of seafood. They were doing some kind of promotion that apparently involved giving people far too much expertly-cooked fish, crustaceans and molluscs, and then cackling quietly as its sheer deliciousness forces you to eat it all anyway. We went in not understanding why the place was so empty, and left having got it completely; everyone who turns up to eat there turns into a seal and swims down the river to start their new life.
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"These chopsticks are rubbish."
"Those are straws, Ric."
"They gave me straws to tackle my ramen?"
"That's a gin cocktail."
"Ah."
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Mango cider. How is mango cider a thing? And a thing so popular the pub we were in only had enough for half a pint less than 24 hours after hooking spile to pump, no less.
(This worked in my favour, I admit. That stuff was basically sugar dissolved in yellow alcohol. I could hear my pancreas and my liver yell "Oh, for fuck's sake!" simultaneously.)
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There's something utterly brilliant about the Liverpool Maritime Museum and International Museum of Slavery having separate entrances that lead into the same entrance hall. It's both a comment on the stupidity of segregation and a reminder that the two topics are utterly inseparable. Liverpool's status as arguably the country's most important port in the 18th century cannot be disentangled from the massive amount of unimaginable human suffering
Both museums are fascinating, and depressing. You'd think the tone might lighten once you've been through the floor dedicated to slavery, but the maritime sections focus on the Titanic, the Lusitania, and the extended freezing misery of the war for the North Atlantic, so it's pretty much misery wall-to-wall. I mean, you should totally go, but bring tissues.
(There was one moment of strangeness when we along with three or four other people were sitting watching a video in which woman of colour told stories of slavery and we heard three of four other women laughing uproariously beside the photos of lynched slaves just outside. There was a brief moment in which we all glanced around at each other and, by mutual consent, decided not to go out and reprimand the presumed hen party (hell, who doesn't want to learn about the Middle Passage before tying the know?) and instead concentrate extra hard on the video instead. Because we were white British people, and that is how we deal with these things.)
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The day after the museums of slavery and maritime disaster, we wandered over to the Liverpool Museum for some light relief. What we got was poverty, unemployment, labour theft and race-riots. So that didn't work.
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I love food that doubles as social commentary. We found a creperie on Albert Docks we liked so much we had breakfast there both mornings. Our order of choice was the "breakfast brunch"; a combination of French and British cuisine. Well, I say "combination"; it was a delicious cheese and egg crepe (with herbs, when they could be bothered) that they then just dropped a slice of bacon and a hash brown on top of. "There you go, England. This is the kind of merde you like, non?"
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It's never fun being woken at 6 in the morning by the people in the next room yapping on at ridiculous levels for over an hour. It's at times like this I wish I didn't have a pathological need to avoid confrontation (see also: International Museum of Slavery, inappropriate cackling within).
Fliss, who has much better hearing than I do told me the whole thing was basically some dude's attempt to get laid. Seventy-five minutes of negotiation! Have some pride, man. Just spend a few minutes pleasuring yourself and spend the rest of the time getting some work done. Or having a sleep. Sleep looked pretty good right then.
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"They've stopped talking."
"Yep. He finally got his sex."
"That's what all that was about?"
"Yes. Give him credit. It did work. Eventually."
"It did? I didn't hear anything."
"She moaned four times whilst you were having that wee."
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There's a Beatles pub crawl in Liverpool that features 168 pubs. 168! I'm filing that under both "life goals".
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