Not such a big deal? Maybe to the people of a city accused of the most hideous lies imaginable by the paper after Hillsborough.

There are some things I think Liverpool needs to get over, but Hillsborough is a taboo. Emotion is still high and raw, and understandably as far as I’m concerned.

The Sun has bent over backwards in recent years to apologise for its sickening coverage of Hillsborough, but I don’t blame scousers for wanting nothing to do with the paper, especially when it continues to employ Kelvin MacKenzie – something the BBC should also be ashamed of.

Sometime the best thing you can do to make amends is to just go away and leave people in peace.

• You can find my other coverage of Hillsborough, usually involving the Sun, here

• The SunLiverpool account seems very new, but it’s already attracted some unsurprising opprobrium, including:

@SunLiverpool You hideous, hideous lying bastards. Was that what you wanted? Much less than you deserve.

Every @SunLiverpool follower should be ashamed. All 600 of ‘em

@SunLiverpool as if the sun is scum

I’ve only lived in Liverpool for a year, but somehow I think that The Sun might be being a wee bit optimistic with their @SunLiverpool feed.

Good god, I can’t believe this. When will they get the message? We won’t forgive. We won’t forget.

You have afucking nerve don’t you? The lies your shitrag printed and you set up a twitter account?

The @SunLiverpool needs to fuck off

Anyway, some of the answers are predictably hilarious. My favourite is:

Abbey Road cos it was on the cover of the Beatles album

There are plenty of more obvious one there, many of which have a personal resonance for me as I’ve lived in a couple of places that I’d deem fairly famous: Penny Lane, while a student, one of the best years of my life; Lark Lane, for the best part of a decade; and David Street in the Holy Land, that rather odd area in the Dingle (aren’t they all?) comprised of names from the Old Testament.

In the Dingle, of course, there are also Welsh streets, and several named after Dickens characters and novels, and some after Tennyson.

Back around Lark Lane there are the likes of Ivanhoe, Waverley, Mannering and Marmion, named after works by Sir Walter Scott.

Elsewhere there are Russian streets, giving us the wonderful Sputnik Drive. And elsewhere there are less outlandish byways like Seaman Road, which always makes me smirk.

There are thousands more with a story behind them, of course, mostly named after landowners, dockers, mayors or wealthy business types.

Some seem to have been named to be deliberately unpronounceable: Ranelagh, Eberle, Phythian.

Others have a story to tell: Commutation Row, Coal Street, Copperas Hill, Hackins Hey, Huskisson Street, Oil Street, Pilgrim Street, Rock Street

Liverpool has a story to tell through the names of its streets: of merchants and soldiers and slavers and blackguards.

It’s a story I’m increasingly drawn to; a rich and fertile place for an enquiring mind.

Someone recently told me that to understand the future, you had to understand the past. How did Liverpool get where it is today? What forces and trends and people formed the city we now live in? What’s gone on on the streets, above and below?

It’s a story for a different site, albeit one I also have a hand in. Seven Streets tells the story of the first seven streets in Liverpool, and what sprung from them over the next 800 years.

Those roads are still the centre of much that goes on in Liverpool, stretching from the business district across Liverpool One to the Ropewalks, arguably the city’s entertainment hub.

And from them sprung everything that is Liverpool today. Don’t worry, it’s not a website on topography. Well, not just topography. It’s about people, places and things.

And it’s not just me, there are a whole host of creatives with a hand in it, donating their content to a site without a financial imperative, so they’re free to celebrate the really interesting, weird, glorious stuff that happens in Liverpool.

The Culture Blog will tick over, mainly the stuff that’s not good enough to go on Seven Streets, so don’t delete that half-forgotten RSS feed yet.

Just redirect your nodes, and tell your friends. They’ll think it’s boss.

• Seven Streets

I have little connection to Hillsborough, beyond the fact that I printed a number of articles in Liverpool Student about the appointment of Norman Bettison as the Chief Constable of Merseyside in 1998.

It’s an appropriately simple exhibition, with a short, plain page of A4 introducing reproductions of the pages, presented without captions or any associated text.

The editions reflect the shift in reaction from disbelief, to grief and then to anger. Expressions of grief, solidarity and sorrow are replaced by the search for answers and anger at the incompetence of the South Yorkshire police and lies printed by the national media, notable The Star and The Sun.

The Echo and LDP act mainly as mirrors of the feelings in the city – the relief family members, the terror of survivors, the horror of onlookers, and the outpouring of emotion that surrounded the memorials that followed – before the search for answers begins in earnest.

Among the more subtle elements evident in the papers are the letters of support from football fans of other teams; the family notices in the following days; images of the city’s famous sons and daughters wearing the gloom that surrounded the city on their faces; an outraged letter to the editor from a local businessman who had listened to mistruths from the police about where the blame lay.

Inevitably it’s the images themselves that hold the most power. A fan, head bowed, on a terrace; the aftermath at Leppings Lane; Liverpool’s clergy united at a memorial.

And then a simple image of two brothers hugging each other at Lime Street, in days before the internet and mobile phones – one possibly unsure about whether the other would ever return home.

Tears sting the eyes and I have to leave; into the sunlight of Old Hall Street, Liverpool in April.

• The exhibition runs in the atrium of the Post and Echo building on Old Hall Street until 16 April.

First it wasn’t indexable by Google, as the pages are generated dynamically, then we lost the CMS (we think it’s in Toxteth) and now all the internal linking structure has gone to cock.

So, I’ve given up on ever getting it on the web in any kind sustainable fashion, and decided to simply cannibalise some of the choice stuff on the blog. I’ve run out of time and patience and lost the inclination to faff about with it any more – even though I retain a lot of affection and pride for that time in my life and the people who made it what it was (I’m pouring out a metaphorical beer for my homies as I type this).

If you don’t know what the hell I’m on about, I used to edit a Liverpool in magazine that kicked the arses of all the other ones. If you’re of a mind to, you can still flick through the site by changing the number on the end of the article URLs to anywhere between one and 300. Think of it as a kind of lucky dip. Well, mainly lucky.

I’m about to embark on another, similar project, which has the advantage over B+W of starting its life online, and therefore not costing tens of thousands of pounds. Think of it as a new ship leaving a dry dock, passing the rusting hulk of its predecessor on the way out.

Anyway, here’s one of the highlights of those old B+W editions; Che’s gonzo, strangely but aptly troubled interview with Alexei Sayle.

Picking up the rumbling mobile, the ’1 new message’ read “How ’bout Alexei Sayle he’s got a new book out + said some dodgy stuff bout Hillsborough,” and thus the assignment began.

Having already polished off his previous collection of short stories under the title of The Dog Catcher, confidence was high that a novel was quite achievable, even if there was less than a week to get through it.

Jocasta, whose name had decreed since birth that she had to work in media, had arranged to send the new novel by Friday, and the interview would take place on the Thursday.

Friday became Saturday morn as the wonderful postal service had, in their almighty wisdom, sent the book to a sorting office selected at random from their list of ‘not on any map’ sites. Now there was five days to get it read, actually four as Saturday would be taken up with other work, no, actually two as the ’1 new voice message’ informed me that the interview would now be on Tuesday. Great.

That weekend every available waking moment was spent studying this book, from the unsettling grinning clown on the front cover to the smiling Alexei on the inside back sleeve. A variety of public transport – coaches, buses and parents – all aided the process and, finally, on the 86 to Smithdown Road the last page was turned.

Tuesday rolled around with an equal amount of giddiness and fear, the sort associated with getting to have sex with someone so stunning you’re sure you’ll screw up but are just glad of the chance.

“Hi, it’s Che, I’m supposed to be doing an interview with you.” Pause.

“Er yeah is this for the Jewish Chronicle?” Good start.

After the confusion, the dialogue began stutteringly as a rhythm was sought, general questions about how much was based on Alexei’s own experiences. The fact that since he came from Liverpool and that the book is primarily based in and around the area it would seem to be a lot, but in reality it’s fiction based and the views of the characters. Especially Kelvin – the main character – who does share some of his views and experiences. But is essentially a character in a book, he added.

So what of his own views, I thought, was the famous Comrade Sayle now becoming more conservative in his opinions as seems to happen with age?

“In my case no” he laughed. “I think I’m less condemnatory of right wing people in that I think their views are wrong but I’m sympathetic to how they become like that, I mean that’s part of the subtext of the book.”

But why writing rather than comedy now?

“I like writing more than comedy as it’s less judgmental it’s never just black and white.” Mentally I note the cheap plug that could be drawn from this.

“It’s a deliberate attempt from me as I’m interested in being much more ambiguous and try to make the reader think.”

Was this where the problems arose regarding the Hillsborough disaster and his comments about ‘sentimentality’? Hesitantly and wearily he answered that he was trying to make a much more complex point which got boiled down.

“I was talking about the main character in the book, who suffers a catastrophe. Football has always consoled him but when he goes back to a match after this catastrophe he finds it doesn’t console him any more. That was why I made reference to Hillsborough. It wasn’t a joke.”

I debate whether to push the point further, but realise that the majority of people will have already made their minds up no matter what angle I pursue. Would the fact that his brother-in-law was missing at Hillsborough for over 5 hours gained understanding from those who hate him or just add to their hatred. Grey areas?

“Bad fiction, bad TV, bad movies: it’s all too easy for the viewer, bad guys dressed in black and the like, whereas life and fiction is much more complex and less constant. What I’m trying to do is get at the truth, which sounds pretentious, but I’m always prodding.”

We talk more about the investment you make when paying to enjoy yourself and dislike of state sponsorship of the arts, how he now understands the importance of winning the culture bid is to Liverpool, prodding away and opening up grey areas for people to think about.

In closing we talk about the book and how it tries to show coping with the randomness of events, loss of control and how difficult it actually is to come to terms with.

I thank Alexei for the interview and agree to come down to his book reading, but illness prohibits the encounter. I’m left with more grey areas and thoughts of the pies, the pies!

• Written by Che Burnley for Black+White in 2003

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

As a human being I despise The Sun for its lies, prejudice, snideness, cynical politics, nepotism and the way it glories in being a kind of dunce’s comic.

It’s become traditional, as the Sun has attempted to reposition itself as woman- and minority-friendly, to look on its excesses with the same indulgence afforded to a badly-behaved and particularly obnoxious and stupid child.

Truth is, it’s hard not to applaud the ingenuity of The Sun’s subs over the years. ‘Super Caley go ballistic, Celtic are atrocious’ is a work of genius, and supposedly was kept in reserve for donkey’s years until an appropriate game came along.

And I feel a lot of sympathy for people who have to work at the paper who may not share The Sun’s nastiness.

But a lot of The Sun’s efforts are akin to the kind of mindless inanity involved in watching a beered-up idiot grope women in a bar, dance on tables and repeatedly smash his head against a wall as his mates cheer him on.

I’m often amused by childish and slapstick idiocy, but there’s generally a bit of dark side to edgy humour. There’s a fine line between funny and offensive, assuming they’re not one and the same.

As often as The Sun has scored with a funny header, it’s committed pretty disgraceful errors of judgment. In case you’re wondering which ones I’m referring to, there are a few below.

MINE FUHRER – Attempt to smear Scargill during miner’s strike sabotaged by printers

BONKERS BRUNO LOCKED UP – The Sun laughs at mental illness

THE TRUTH – Kelvin MacKenzie’s famous pack of despicable lies about Hillsborough

GOTCHA – The Sun celebrates the death of hundreds of Argentinian sailors

BEAM ME UP BOTTY – Unfunny reference to George Takei’s homosexuality. He likes anal sex, see?

SWAN BAKE – A lie about asylum-seekers eating swans

The Sun is pushing a selection of its supposedly funniest headlines over the years to celebrate 40 years of printing bullshit.

This fantastic video gives a slight spin on the congratulatory advert. It’s a valuable reminder that you don’t have to come from Liverpool to despise The Sun.

• There’s an attempt to get this trending on Twitter under the hashtag #dontbuythesun

• If you’re on Twitter you can get a relevant dontbuythesun Twibbon

Women from the city have an ample average bosom of 34E, retailer Debenhams has found.

Annette Warburton, Debenhams’ Head of Lingerie Buying, said: “The most common size in Liverpool stands at a plentiful 34E, reflected in local busty celebrities, Abby Clancy and Coleen Rooney.

Debenhams puts all of this down to pregnancy, hormones, boob jobs and weight. I’m certain there are some conclusions to be drawn from all of this, but since they can only conceivably relate to the rate of pregnancy, proportion of women using the pill, amount of plastic surgery and amount of fat lasses in the city I’m not touching them with a bargepole, as it were.

Certainly I can think of a few massive tits I associate with Liverpool, although most of them have now moved out of the city.

If I worked for tabloid at this stage I’d be compiling a gallery of big-breasted Liverpool ladies, and with any amount of WAGs and tabloid fodder to choose from I don’t imagine it would be a difficult task.

As it is I’ll simply provide a link to these great tits from Liverpool

• Image by Munkkii via Creative Commons

So, once in a while, I turn up to Twitter meet-ups to put faces to names, names to handles and handles to faces. That’s a lot of information to juggle in your head while making small-talk with someone you’ve never met before, but I like a challenge.

There’s something of a singles night aspect to Tweetups, in that there’s a certain amount of bravery involved in approaching someone you think you may know by an internet alias. But, to stretch the analogy, the effort you’re willing to put in is likely to pay off. Besides, I normally approach these events with a certain amount of dutch courage.

I’ve met up a few groups of people who I’ve met on the internet, and always been pleased that I’ve bothered to. I’m not especially phased by meeting strangers as it’s generally something I have to do as a journalist on a frequent basis and, although some people find it odd that I’d choose to meet Twitter folk and the like, I’d prefer to think of it as less strange than never meeting people with whom I have some sort of relationship.

The latest meet was the second Liverpool Twestival at the lovely Leaf tea bar, in aid of Clatterbridge Cancer Research.

Anyway, I’ve collected a few photos and a video from the various social networks my fellow Twitter folk frequent. I appear in the vid below classily waving a can of Red Stripe.

And here’s some images on Flickr from ap4a and feelinglistless – and a blog post from adebond all about the night.

• Video by JenniferWelch via Creative Commons.

Find out more here if you’re interested.

Dave Evans has sent over some images of Michael Shields’ release, a story that look sure to dominate headlines for some time to come.

The local media has waged a vociferous campaign to have Shields freed, and local celebrities, clergy and footballers have also rallied to the cause.

Shields was freed following a Royal Pardon that was issued by Justice Secretary Jack Straw after receiving ‘fresh evidence which the Bulgarian court did not consider’ that indicated that Shields was ‘morally and technically innocent’ of the attack on a Bulgarian national.

Shields was convicted of attempted murder in a Bulgarian court in 2005 and sentenced to 15 years imprisonment, later reduced to ten. In 2006 he was transferred to a British prison.

Shields always maintained that he was asleep in bed at the time of the attack and a hotel night porter appeared to give Shields an alibi, while another man, Graham Sankey, later confessed in writing to the specific attack, later withdrawing this confession.

Sankey’s confession was not admissible as he refused to repeat it in the Bulgarian court.

In July this year, Straw provisionally denied Shields a pardon, after the Court of Appeal chucked the case back to the Justice Secretary. At this point Shields’ father announced his intention to stand as MP for Blackburn against Straw at the next election.

Following a meeting with Shields’ parents in August, Straw decided to grant the pardon.

Straw says that at this meeting he was given ‘important new evidence’, which convinced him that his former decision was wrong.

Straw appears to indicate that this new evidence derives from a verbal Sankey confession, allegedly made to Shield’s family members in 2005, and that Merseyside police have uncovered corroborative evidence relating to that confession.

Straw says this of the evidence:

I will not set out in this statement all the evidence that has come to light over the last two weeks but suffice it to say that there is very good reason to believe I was being told the truth.This in my view profoundly changed the credibility of the various accounts of what actually happened in this case.

This evidence, says Straw, was not available at the time of the Bulgarian trial, nor had he been previously aware of it. Shields’ current solicitors were not aware of the evidence either.

Of the assault, Straw says this:

It is not for me to say who was responsible for this disgraceful assault.

However, although Straw has been careful to word his explanations for Shields’ release, the new evidence that Straw finds so compelling can only point to one explanation.

A postscript to Straw’s statement sees him stating that Justice Secretaries should not, in the future, be responsible for handling such cases.

The Shields family say they intend to embark on an effort to clear Michael’s name in Bulgaria.

All images © Dave Evans

In an article in the Daily Post’s legal section, Ben Schofield writes that Exchange Chambers was surprised that Gerrard chose not to employ their services, but lavished a reported £250K on London QC John Kelsey-Fry rather than the eventual prosecutor David Turner.

Turner, a former cabaret director of the Cambridge footlights, is described in the article as ‘charismatic raconteur’ and thought the evidence that Gerrard acted in self-defence in the Southport punch-up ‘strong’.

Gerrard’s friends pleaded guilty to affray or causing a disturbance.

The remaining important – and unanswered – questions from the case seem to be exactly what word beginning with ‘P’ Gerrard labelled receiver of said uppercuts Marcus McGee; what a ‘jammy donut’ shot is; and exactly what music the Reds ace was after in the first place.

• Image by Dave Evans