I’m unsure whether this is a bit of publicity stunt, or simply because of twattery.

Although there are reports elsewhere that suggest businessman Billy Palmer wants to keep the mural and convert the pub into a shop and bar, The Grauniad reports that Palmer wants to get rid of the rat and turn the building into ‘luxury flats’.

I suspect, and I hope I’m right, that this is a bit of scouse ribbing on the part of Palmer, who presumably know how well talk of more ‘luxury flats’ will go down in Chinatown, especially if that involves destroying some quite brilliant public art.

The Grauniad also reports that the rat on the side of the Whitehouse is ‘holding a machine gun’, which suggests a spot of remote copy filing to me, so I don’t know how much faith we can put in its reporting on this matter.

If he’s serious Palmer wouldn’t be the first to try to destroy the Banksy rat – which is clearly holding a marker pen that it has used to scrawl all over the building, for anyone doubting the meaning of the image – after Liverpool’s idiot City Council decided it was going to destroy it a few years ago.

Personally I’m all for keeping the artwork as is, derelict building and all. I’ve watched with dismay as the Ropewalks veers towards another cut-and-shut luxury flat and drinking pit grid.

The council has recently put together some sort of steering group to make sure Ropewalks doesn’t fall into disrepair, though I don’t think they’re talking about the disgusting state of Concert Square and Slater Street on a Friday night.

Bars and binge drinking may be the price of progress, but there are 101 derelict buildings in Ropewalks that the council could look at before its starts OK-ing the destruction of public works of art that bring something unique to the area, beyond the array of Jackson Pollocks that pebble dash the area in the early hours.

The other two corners of Berry Street and Duke Street would be a start.

• Image courtesy of Dave the Pap

The place looks shabby and tired, and I felt for the staff who must have seen the place decline.

Having looked around the Conservation Centre’s exhibition of Stephen King’s images of the fifth floor of Lewis’s, it’s clear that that’s not the half of it.

Frozen in time since it closed its doors to the public, the floor is like a Marie Celeste of the retail world, looking almost like it was abandoned overnight.

King’s images of the faded, decadent beauty and grandiosity of it all are wonderful; melancholy snapshots of a time long gone.

The shots of the staff, particularly, are wonderful portraits of proud employees, and the information on how long many of them spent working at the department store testament to how well Lewis’s treated its employees.

The composition in the photography is wonderful, even though it has to be said that the subject matter is strong. King doesn’t overdo it, but lets the visuals speak for themselves.

There’s also a ‘documentary’ filmed by Jacqueline Passmore that includes some lovely memories from Lewis’s staff from times gone by, but the faux-cine visuals are annoyingly vague and unfocussed, in more ways than one.

Still, that doesn’t take the sheen off a wonderful set of pictures and reminiscences that provide a window into a beautiful lost world of customer service, jobs for life and formica.

Liverpool will be diminished for losing Lewis’s.

The fact is, though, due to diminishing time and a lot less potential choices – compared to the Capital of Culture year – I’ve struggled to find that many things to weigh up this year.

Work, cricket and an expansion of my blog commitments elsewhere mean that I’ve found it tough to devote as much time to wandering around galleries and the like over the last twelve months.

But quite a few of the people I asked to help me to compile the best of 2009 in Liverpool have also found it tough.

Is it evidence of a cultural hangover in Liverpool? Perhaps, but realistically it’s probably that there have been less headline events.

If I cast my mind back I can bring to mind an excellent late season run at the Everyman and Playhouse; Stephen Shakeshaft and Franceso Mellina at the Conservation Centre, Bridget Riley at the Walker; Abandon Normal Devices at FACT; The Beat Goes On at World Museum; a great series of Liverpool University talks at the Phil; the Magical Mystery Tour at the Maritime Museum; White Feather at the Beatles Story; Liverpool Beer Festival; and the annual treat of the Picket’s Christmas quiz. And my gratitude to the Picturehouse for showing The Thing, amongst plenty other leftfield fare.

Elsewhere the Leeds-Liverpool canal opened; Michael Shields finally won freedom; people power on Hope Street defeated Tesco; Liverpool’s food and drink festival was a victim of its own success; there was cricket in the park during the Ashes, while LCC hosted a sell-out 20/20 featuring Freddie Flintoff; Macca and Gordon Brown paid visits to the Pool; Liverpool Tweetups; and Liverpool signed off as Capital of Culture with the Transition Light Night.

Stuff that I meant to go to but didn’t make include a couple of apparently-amazing gigs by the Wild Swans; several nights at the Kazimier people raved about; I kicked myself for a week over missing Colour Chart at the Tate; and no doubt half a dozen other gigs I intended to see.

Stuff I’m still uncertain about includes Liverpool One; the Echo Arena; the raft of new buildings at the waterfront; the same cast of dodgy political characters continually wrangling in city hall; and the city’s continued post-Capital direction.

Still, there’s no denying that there’s plenty of stuff still going on in the city.

My own favourite was the Long Night of the AND Festival – one of those great, infrequent, nights where Liverpool is transformed into an all-singing, all-dancing cultural space and unlikely treats can be found around every corner.

I’ve asked a group of people well placed in media, music, arts and other general culture vultures to venture their high- and lowlights of Liverpool in 2009, plus a typically-Scouse detour on the 80A bus.

So, browse the assorted thoughts below, and Claire’s fantastic doodle, and let me know your own thoughts.

Etsu

In Japan there is a chain of fast-food outlets whose symbol is a terrifying cartoon granddad who looks like Buster Merryfield on Buckfast. It’s called ‘Beard Papa’ and it sells – what else? – cream puffs.

Until Beard Papa has muscled Greggs off our high streets and sickly-sweet pastry balls injected with tepid fake cream replaces chip butties as workmen’s lunchtime snack of choice, the ‘Japanification’ of Britain will be incomplete.

But our embrace of Japan grows every year. In 2009 I discovered something unimaginable even three years ago – perfect, authentic sushi served in Liverpool.

Etsu, located at Beetham Plaza, has actually been going since late 2007 and won several local ‘restaurant of the year’ awards in 2008, but it remains under the radars of most who live in Liverpool.

Run by David Abe, a friendly, half-Japanese, half-Scouse local businessman, it employs genuine Japanese sushi chefs who were apprenticed in Japan – unlike the vast majority of places where sushi is served in the UK. It shows.

The sashimi (raw fish), nigiri (raw fish and rice) and maki (raw fish, rice and seaweed) is super-fresh, exquisitely prepared and succulent. Meals are enhanced by the genuine Japanese extras on the menu, the pickles, the edamame (soybeans in their pods), the miso (clear soup) and gyoza (dumplings). To drink, as well as beers and wines, there is a choice selection of sakes.

I’ve been to Japan on several occasions and never eaten sushi like this outside the country. As well as the food, Etsu gets the ambience exactly right.

Sushi is often served as a either delicate, high-end food, or a canteen-style snack in Britain whereas in Japan, sushi places are very much neighbourhood restaurants, humble, friendly, informal, but proud of their high-standard cuisine.

It’s like this at Etsu, which is run as scrupulously as a Michelin-starred eaterie and yet is as relaxed as Bill Murray in Lost in Translation. I doubt you’d get better Japanese food anywhere in Britain.

Jonathan Northcroft

Dreaming of Liverpool

• Click here for a larger version

Claire Pitt
A Little Piece of Me

OMD, Sound City and Alma de Cuba

While OMD at the Phil were astoundingly good, I secretly wished I could have heard the mighty RLPO more. Despite its continued favour with orchestras, they’ve yet to fashion an oboe engineered to be heard above the sound of 2,000 geography teachers clapping more-or-less in time to Enola Gay. Still, there’s always the DVD to fill in the bits I missed.

Louder and even more thrilling was Liverpool Sound City – and, for me, the standout night was Heartbreak and Metronomy at Alma De Cuba.

Liverpool’s at its best when everyone’s invited to the party, and, during Sound City, it was like Liverpool’s great music-loving massive (those not sated by Argentinian Beatles tribute acts in August, anyhow) were darting around, catching impromptu performances by Brooklyn starlets here and this summer’s festival must-sees there. Actually, that’s exactly what it was.

Alma’s a great venue, but there’s still a whiff of the cassock about it. Not this night.

The pulpit was possessed – and we were all pogo-ing along, throwing our cares, and our expensive chill-filtered vodkas, to the winds – like that episode of Songs of Praise where the continuity announcer warns ‘this programme contains strong language and violence from the outset’.

As Cliff said, ‘Why should the Devil have all the good music?’.

David Lloyd
Skrift

Go Penguins

I’ll put in a quick word for what I hated about 2009: Go Bloody Penguins.

Open letter to Wild In Art, the company behind the penguins and 2008′s Superlambananas: Please don’t do another one in 2010.

If this sort of project becomes a tradition Liverpool is going to wind up looking like a crap Noah’s Ark.

To everyone else I say this: Avoid them like the plague. Unless you’re driving a fire-shooting Bradley tank.

Nick Holloway
Mercy

Irish ups and downs

So after a brilliant year in 2008 – one that started with the most hope and optimism I think I have ever had along with pride in the city – I thought I should carry some of that over to 09 and try to get to as many gigs and shows as possible.

It kind of worked with one significant high and one very memorable low.

Let’s start with the low – Lord of the Dance at the Empire Theatre. Dear Lord, I have never been more embarrassed of the Irish culture in my life – or rather the bastardisation of it.

Neon costumes, fastened with velcro and stripped off on stage to reveal what can only be described as bikini-clad Irish dancers. Horrendous.

The music, the effects – everything bloody awful. What annoyed me more was that some people thought it was good – if not great.

Thankfully I had the experience of dancing in the aisles to Sharon Shannon at the Philharmonic Hall.

The most beautiful sound: energetic, full of passion and the gig made me smile and remember seeing her as a much younger girl with my dad.

2009 – I made some of my best memories and looked back on many more.

Mairead Smyth

Liverpool’s hangover

Liverpool, 2009. What a bastard of a hangover, eh? Granted, I was away for half of it, but what I did see just seemed like a tidal wave of diarrhea.

Aye, this last year was the year that Liverpool ate itself. All that potential that seemed to be brewing under throughout the tail end of the 90s and Liverpool spunked its load on a Jetsons-style shopping centre, an arena that’s not as big as Manchester’s and a year that proved we can put on a party, but are not so good at the come-down.

The City Centre became more aggressive; previously cool bars were either uprooted or became drowned in scallydom; even the Burritos didn’t taste quite as good.

Musically, the only bands that were ever mentioned in the local media seemed to be well into their middle age. Mostly talented, granted, but very provincial.

I used to guffaw on my trips home, to find the Sheffield Star still talking about Boy on a Dolphin or Babybird, now the Echo is the same.

So come ‘ed Liverpool, summon some of that much vaunted Scouse Spirit and do something interesting in 2010; or carry on drowning in a pool of yer own sick.

Simon Ryder

Blue Heaven

My overriding memory of 2009 has got to be beating Manchester United in the FA Cup semi-final on penalties at Wembley.

OK, we didn’t go on to win the cup in the end. But beating Man U at Wembley was still a special experience. To win on penalties in the manner we did was something else.

My sister’s boyfriend, a Man U fan, was sat next to me in the Everton end.

His face was such a picture when Phil Jagielka netted the last penalty and the Blue end erupted.

While football may not count as culture in many peoples’ book, the FA Cup semi-final is the highlight of my 2009.

David Bartlett
Dale Street Blues

Wood Bus

Late in the year there was an incident which reminded me that if nothing else, Liverpool still has the capacity to be inexplicable. 

It was on a cold evening at the end of November, during rush hour, when I was braving the fourth ring of hell that is our local bus service.

After fighting to the back of an 80A to a seat that everyone else was ignoring, I set about trying to read my newspaper which, though Berliner-sized these days, still isn’t conducive to being dealt with in a crowded area.

After a few stops the bus began to thin out a bit, and as I looked up from the theatre reviews, I noticed that a double seat had become empty across the aisle from me.  As I was about to move over to give myself some more room, I noticed that the seat was already occupied.  By a Yule log.

I say it was a Yule log.  It was certainly large and squat and resembled the stump that the log lady in Twin Peaks used to carry round.  Its yuleness was probably just an attribution for the time of year. 

In June it probably would have simply been a log.  But it was the end of November, the season of good(ish) will beckoned and so for the purposes of this anecdote let’s call it a Yule log. Yule for short. I took a picture. 

As you can see the wooden enigma was minding its own business, but most significantly didn’t look like it would take kindly to having my arse sitting on top of it, probably about as impressed as my arse would be finding itself trying to get comfy on that bark. 

I could not help but stare, like this was some spectral herald for the upcoming festivities and a reminder that I needed to buy some more presents.

The intellectual part of my brain which I often let out to visit on occasions such as this assumed that it was owned by one of the passengers and so since I was already sitting, my seat already warm, I thought no more of it and returned to enviously lapping up the offerings in the west end that I was missing.

Presently, someone, a student probably, with a huge backpack, who had previously been standing approached. He asked the woman sitting diagonally opposite if they owned the log. They denied all knowledge. He attracted the attention of the teenager directly opposite who was listening to Kings
of Leon. She shrugged.

Undeterred he worked his way through all of the people in the vicinity. Including me. No, we each said in turn, we didn’t know anything about it. Do we look like we’d know anything about it? 

The student, having ascertained that no one would admit to ownership of the log, simply walked away.  He didn’t put it on the floor.  He didn’t pick it up and sit down. He stepped back down the aisle and continued to stand.

Clearly the log will have had previous ownership and that owner, presumably on their way to a Twin Peaks meet-up, may have left the bus and then realised their mistake turned balefully as the bus sped off into the distance. 

Could they have phoned the bus company’s lost property when they returned home? “I left a Yule log on the bus. A log. Well, it is November.”

I passed by Yule on my way off the bus at my destination.  I imagined, given that no one would take responsibility for it, because it was small enough not be noticed by the driver, Yule continued his journey indefinitely and unconcerned about its fellow passengers, arrogantly taking up two seats. 

He could still be out there now, somewhere, going from the centre to Speke, round and round and round again.

Stuart Ian Burns
Feeling Listless

Glenn Brown

Know from the start I’m a fraud. We’re a few days shy of 2010 and I am eyes-to-ceiling trying to recall the hundreds of cultural events I’ve attended in Liverpool so I can select this year’s favourite.

Only there aren’t hundreds to pick from. Not even half that number. We might even be down to double figures – but only just, and that includes the Nouvelle Vague gig, which I know was brilliant but remains hazy, let’s say. My god, what have I been doing? And it’s not culture’s fault either; it’s mine!

The shame has prompted a new year’s resolution, that’s for sure. Even so, I don’t want this to detract from the considerable talents of my choice because the Glenn Brown exhibition at the Tate, which rocked up in February, really packed some punches.

I hadn’t seen this English painter’s work before so I had few expectations. I knew he was in the business of reproducing other artists’ work – such as Rembrandt, Dali and Auerbach – in his own style to develop them, or reduce them, as some might argue, into a new work. And I also knew his art was littered with pop culture references.

I was immediately struck by the macabre sense of playfulness in his art. He’s confrontational, dark and provocative and also funny. As a result, I found myself curious and uncomfortable. In the next moment laughing and, in the next moment, repulsed and confused!

I adore Frank Auerbach, so I was particularly in awe of Brown’s ability to replicate the thick, gloopy brushstrokes – the ones that look edible – that are synonymous with Auerbach and others like him.

And I’m glad I enjoyed Brown’s borrowing skills; it could have gone the other way. No-one likes a poor impersonator, do they?

Even Brown’s picture titles smack of pop culture satire: ‘The Great Masturbator (2006)’ as opposed to Salvador Dali’s onanist in 1929, and ‘Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London, I’ll show you something to make you change your mind (1992)’ give you a taste of his delicious naughtiness.

It was a strange exhibition, evoking a range of emotions, which is a real coup in my book.

I often felt as though I was looking at something that was violating beauty, like the portraits of eyeless people, which was unsettling – but a little crunch of humour in other rooms lightened the discomfort.

The exhibition felt important too. I admired Brown’s shock tactics, his thoughtfulness and, at times, ingenuity and I wanted to know more about him; the artist.

Like leaving the cinema dying to talk about your best bits, I left full of awe, chattering on about nothing in particular, I’m sure – but he’d hooked me in.

I felt like I’d found someone new I’d always remember and look out for, and I love it when that happens.

Tori H-D
Twiverpool on Twitter

Daniel Johnston

I was introduced to Daniel Johnston a few years ago, in my days of working in a record store. I kinda liked him, but was probably a bit more into harder / metally stuff at the time and kinda left him be. An intriguing character, with a lot of history relating to manic depression which is reflected in his songs.

I was pretty excited about seeing him despite the 1am stage time he had. Kurt Cobain was quoted as revealing that Daniel was his favourite songwriter too. Anyway, he came on stage and did nothing but impress, quiet, quaint and reserved initially leading into some pretty rocking stuff with Liverpool band Hot Club de Paris as his backing.

I think people can I either like or loathe Daniel, he’s messy, loose, his voice quivers but for me his lyrics and songs are so touching and full of emotion, you don’t even notice technicalities. Whether it be about lost loves / loneliness or comic book heroes, he pulls it off with passion.

A brilliant end to a mammoth night of trekking between gigs for Liverpool Music Week.

Matt Thomas
Mattthomas.co.uk

A city at ease with itself

There was a danger that 2009 in Liverpool would feel a bit like after the Lord Mayor’s show, what with Capital of Culture ending and all that.

Thankfully we don’t have an elected Mayor and won’t for as long as the drones in the town hall have anything to say about it, so there was no sense of disappointment after his carriage had passed us by, because it didn’t exist in the first place, or something. I’m not really sure where I was going with the mayor thing, but suffice to say, 2009 was great.

To me, 2008 was like electric shock therapy which made the city and the world wake up to what we have on our own doorstep.

Now the Culture hoopla is over, in 2009 we have been left to enjoy ourselves around a city that we now recognise as pretty great – be that a pub crawl at the top end (I’d recommend the Phil, with eats at the Everyman Bistro), enjoying the waterfront or living it up in Mathew Street.

Liverpool is at ease with itself, wearing a smoking jacket, cravat and slippers as it warms its hands of the embers of what was once a beautiful imaginary mayor’s coach. And long may that continue.

Neil Macdonald
Scyfilove.com

The Flashback exhibition at The Walker is designed as a taster, and gives an impression the evolution of Riley’s work over the years.

From the 60s – which seem to show Riley as an arty, sexy auteur in the same mould as a Verity Lambert and show her work on shape and tone differences – through to more modern excursions into chromatic contrasts and collage, Riley has an unsung pillar of modern, er, modernism.

I think there’s a bit of diminishing returns as time goes by, but the earlier stuff is amazingly effective, and the accompanying studies are fascinating in showing the painstaking work that went into them.

Riley’s pictures don’t claim any wider significance, indeed she makes the point that they don’t mean anything, they’re simply sensory wonders. In fact, Riley would probably wouldn’t go as far as that, but it all gets a bit reductive after a while.

Riley’s work tests the very limits of the human eye’s abilities to translate information to the brain, and for the brain to make sense of it.

If Riley’s pictures are about anything I suppose it’s the actions of the eye and brain in attributing meaning to what they perceive. They evoke image like the ripples in water, and the movement of clouds. Or do they? It’s all very confusing.

An accompanying documentary at the Walker is both intriguing and rather pompous. I do like Riley’s piece but I can’t attach any more significance to them that the teasing question of exactly what they’re doing to my eyes and brain. But I’m not interested in pondering whether the amount to art.

Standing in front of them is quite something, but I don’t think I’d like to have one on the wall. Like a dizzying, exhilarating fairground ride they’re best experienced and then left behind, the vague after-impression lingering long after.

• Flashback runs at the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool until 13 December 2009

Shakeshaft’s job, by his own admission, was centred around news and sport but he was often able to go out and shoot Liverpool in all its beautiful and grimy glory.

The spontaneous nature of the snaps in the exhibition is often apparent, and the bold high-contrast monochrome really lends itself well to the older shots in the collection, which feel like generations ago.

Where Shakeshaft’s images excel is in their depiction of the clearance of tiny terraces that Liverpool was swathed in until the 70s.

They paint a transition not just in geography and housing, but also in culture and society.

The obvious determination of the people displayed in the beautiful, brilliant photographs to stay in their tiny Dickensian hovels lacking in amenities seems unthinkable, but the beauty of hindsight tells us the tower blocks that replaced them were hardly the paragon they were sold as.

You sense Shakeshaft knows it now, and knew it then and though he doesn’t explicitly state that the city has changed forever, perhaps for the worse, it’s certainly possible to make that inference.

The images of people at work, on the docks and roads and in the wash houses, are also superb – and I particularly liked a description of fruit-andveg seller Lizzie Christian’s ‘potato-stained’ hands.

While there’s always a danger of sentimentalising the olden days, a particular danger in Liverpool, there are sufficient reminders of Liverpool’s difficult transition and hard times to balance out the talk of ‘only in Liverpool’ places and faces.

It’s summed up in a portrait of Ken Dodd with a little girl from Claire House that shows Dodd kneeling down to talk to the girl. In the hands of a particularly clod-hopping sub it could be saccharine and cloying, but the elegance and purity of the picture shines through.

It runs until 24 January and is free. Go see it.

As ever, my best laid plans to attend about two dozen different events at the Long Night of the AND Festival didn’t quite go to plan and the Tate, the Mersey Tunnel tour and the Empire tour went by the wayside. To be honest it had taken me quite some time to whittle it down to half a dozen. Reason to make these events a tad more regular in my book.

Anyway, I eventually took in the Turning the Place Over tour; took in a bit of the ambience at the Walker; missed the Empire tour; attended the FACT birthday and its related events; and finished up at the Black-e.

I was particularly pleased to be part of the FACT celebration, as I feel quite a kinship with old place and bumped into old acquaintance Alison Ferguson with a tray of cakes there. Most heartening.

Special mentions to the enthusiastic guide at Turning the Place Over, the outdoor events at FACT and props to the Black-e for turning what use to be hulking wreck into a smart, nearly-there community centre. Proper culture.

Anyway, here are some fuzzy snaps courtesy of my old Samsung mobile phone, which are pleasingly hazy and vaguely magical. Bit like the night.

Not on an ad hoc basis, you understand, but as part of some competition to win some vouchers. It’s a bloody big wall, so it might be fun if you’re into that sort of thing, but my holiday last week has meant that the deadline is pretty close – 3rd September (a week today).

More details here: Top Man blog.

No, I’m a big fan of not fixing things that ain’t broke, but this strikes me as a little unimaginative.

However, it also opens up some intriguing possibilities for events around the city in the future. Her are some:

Go bats!

Bats start springing up around the city. Actually I’d enjoy this one.

Go ballistic!

Ballistic missiles start springing up around the city, each one representing a different country.

Go mad!

Mental health awareness.

Go nuts!

To raise awareness of testicular cancer, testicles start springing up around the city. Kids could be encouraged to go testicle-hunting, with dozens of balls hidden around Liverpool’s sights, landmarks and monuments.

At the conclusion of the event a giant testicle bounces down Lime Street.

Go crackers!

Celebrating crackers from around the world

Go to the foot of your stairs!

People all over Liverpool go to the foot of their stairs to raise awareness of stair-related injuries.

Go commando!

Celebrities such as Ricky Tomlinson and Warren Bradley wear their pants on their heads for a day.

Go Greek!

(That’s enough Go! festivals – Ed)

Anyway, although all of this is facetious in the extreme, I’m sure the Go Penguins events will be fun and successful.

Although there was a lot of sniffiness about the SLBs I thought they were a good way of connecting with kids, and I expect this new programme to be equally successful.

I’ve just returned from The Beatles Story’s White Feather: The Spirit of Lennon press launch at The Beatles Story Pier Head, where Julian Lennon gave the closest thing to an interview he’s provided in years.

Lennon and mother Cynthia were answering questions on the exhibition, created with mementos and artifacts they’ve largely collected themselves over the years.

A such it’s an intriguing and invaluable insight into a man frequently described as ‘difficult’ and ‘infuriating’ – it’s hard not to come to the conclusion having read various accounts of John Lennon that these were not simply euphemisms for ‘nasty piece of work’.

Of course, behind every nasty piece of work is often a rather vulnerable character, and the anecdotes and notes from the Lennons paint a portrait of John as a man equally difficult and easy to love.

• Image by Dave Evans

They go beyond what one might generally expect to see at an exhibition: beyond the Beatles memorabilia; beyond the obvious stories; beyond myth and legend.

I admired the fact that a lot of that extremely personal memorabilia had been thrown open to the public, and Julian claimed that nothing had been left out that was deemed of interest for those reasons.

Of particular interest to me were a picture of John holding a very young Julian looking like nothing more or less than a scal, and the origins of the White Feather Foundation – the story of which is oddly touching.

Elsewhere in the exhibition is a clip of John from That Was The Week That Was reading a poem of his; Macca’s notes for Hey Jude; and a handwritten photo album by Cynthia, the latter especially intriguing.

I felt rather sorry for Julian at the Q&A, assailed as he was by a number of questions you’d blush at asking a close friend. But he shrugged it off and gave frank, self-deprecating and amusing answers.

Perhaps the exhibition serves as a final conclusion to a difficult part of the man’s life, a coming-to-terms and a farewell to the father with whom he had such a troubled relationship.

A friend of mine was once curator at Mendips – John’s early home in Allerton – which is now kitted out in the decor and furnishings of the time. It was interesting, but rather theme park-y and vaguely pointless.

Yoko Ono bought the house and donated it to the National Trust, but had insisted on having the final say about the way things looked. This was absurd, as she had never visited the house when John was young.

As such, the White Feather exhibition is much more valuable as a document of John’s early life, and I admired Julian and Cynthia for creating it, along with their obvious bond.

• Image by Sakura

Francesco Mellina was Dead or Alive’s manager – a dubious honour, I’d've thought – and once asked a cricketer friend of mine to play bass for the band. Wisely, I think, he declined.

Mellina’s role in the scene at Eric’s and other bars with fantastically- ridiculous names between 1978–1982 was outlined by the always-entertaining Paul du Noyer.

The exhibition is a genuine visual record of the music scene at the time, with an impressively wide range of images – both in terms of their style and content.

The film grain that dates these kind of pictures lends a stylised filter to images like Mellina’s, as does the low-light high-contrast black and white tone.

Like the difference between vinyl and digital, they are technically inferior but have much more character.

Loads of people at the private view looked as if they were there at the time, and several I spoke to certainly were.

Plenty of familiar faces were in evidence – I was just surprised Wylie wasn’t there.

It’s interesting to speculate whether any similar visual records of baggy, Britpop or other scenes from more recent times exist.

We’re approaching 20 years since some of the scenes that I may have been a part of. It doesn’t seem that long ago to me, and the prospect of finding yourself in a retrospective exhibition is a galling one.

This is especially true for me, as the prospect of seeing myself wide-eyed and clad in leather-effect plastic trousers is not an appealing one.

Luckily, everyone was so mashed in the late 90s, it seems unlikely that any significant record of those days exists.

Even if they do, I doubt they will ever reveal anything so vibrant, alien and grimily cool as Francesco Mellina’s images.