I’m not a Red, though I know many people who are. Some of them are actually from Liverpool.

But even though I don’t have much to do with LFC, I sympathise with the predicament of fans.

Having seen the two clubs I support wrestle with the bonkers Gary Gibson and clueless Mike Ashley it’s easy to empathise with Liverpool FC fans who are attempting to drag the club back to the values and meaning of the glory days.

Shankly’s famous ‘the socialism I believe in…’ quote once adorned a Philosophy Football shirt I used to own. It’s how I see life, nevermind football, but it started to feel embarrassingly at odds with football some years ago, when I stopped wearing it.

Is it possible to marry that old-fashioned working-class spirit and ethics to football in the modern day? No, not in my opinion, which is why I essentially left football behind some time ago.

Once you reach the point where modern football leaves you dispirited, cynical and vaguely disgusted, there doesn’t seem much point in maintaining an ongoing interest in it.

I admire those fighting for the heart and soul of their football clubs, even though the odds are stacked against them.

The Spirit of Shankly seems in short supply these days, especially on the day when Chester City went into administration. As a friend of mine lamented:

Chester City’s debt amounted to less than a DAY’S pay for John Terry. Obscene.

Indeed. Welcome to football in the 21st century.

Image by Dave the Pap.

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.

It seems unpleasantly ironic that at a time when Liverpool is supposedly getting back on its feet, the store boasting the ‘Liverpool Resurgent’ statue is conceding defeat.

The fact that Liverpool’s resurgence was marked by a bloke with his cock out did not go unnoticed by locals and visitors, with the store regularly referred to as Dickie Lewis’s
In one of my first blogs a couple of years I remarked that the likely closure of Lewis’s to make way for another leisure/retail/lifestyle hub/haven/paradise was a rather depressing state of affairs and, sure enough, it’s come to pass.

It’s also a bit of a coincidence that a new exhibition of the store open in Liverpool this week, supported by a website detailing the experiences and memories of former staff.

Theoretically, Lewis’s could reopen in two year’s time, once extensive renovations on the building as part of the Merepark redevelopment are completed, but I’ll eat my hat if that happens.

People will mutter that this is the price of progress, and though it’s happening for different reasons the closure reflects the difficulties other parts of the city centre are experiencing.

Decreasing footfall spells trouble for areas like Lime Street, Clayton Square and St John’s market, a part of town rapidly becoming dirty, congested and fundamentally unpleasant.

Merepark’s Central Village, which will include the Lewis’s building, is set to redress the cash drain towards Liverpool One, but it’s not clear to me whether the city can support so many different retail/leisure/lifestyle hubs – is there genuinely enough cash being spent to go around Liverpool’s various city-centre areas?

How will the Cavern Walks, the Albert Dock or Met Quarter fare then? And what will the knock-on effect be on Liverpool One?

It remains to be seen, but as this kind city-wide regeneration is predicated on attracting people from other towns and cities it at least makes sense that one of Liverpool’s biggest transport hub gets a makeover.

Stand by for more QParks, Starbucks and Aparthotels. And a fucking massive concrete and glass skyscraper.

Although I fear the damage has been done, it’s a fairly bold move and the correct one in my opinion.

Both areas are littered with characterless bars that have served to make them both destinations in their own right for gangs of boozers on a weekend.

The difference from a few years back is that these groups would once have piled into taxis and headed for town, better equipped to deal with such groups.

These days, because there are so many options – some of which stay open past 11pm – people simply stay where they are, moving from bar to bar.

I’ve written before about my feelings on the explosion of bars on Lark Lane, and though there are several places I enjoy having a beer or some food on the Lane, the tipping point was passed some time ago as far as I’m concerned.

I suppose the licensing change will have little impact for the foreseeable future, unless bars start to fall due to the recession. I don’t wish closure on any businesses, but I think their explosion has been to the detriment of Lark Lane, particularly.

According to Councillor Richard Kemp, who represents Allerton’s Church ward, 70 per cent of people agree with the cap on bars in these areas. The police also support the move, having reported an increase in crime in both areas.

It hardly seems like rocket science to make the connection between the rise in the number of boozers and the rise in anti-social behaviour.

I don’t believe it’s the fault of pubs in particular, but the concentration of drinking establishments in these places was a problem waiting to happen.

Personally, I welcome the news. Quality, not quantity, as in most things.

But Ghost Stories is a total change of pace, tone… well, everything to the last few productions.

Scripted by Andy Nyman, who helps Derren Brown out with his shows, and Jeremy Dyson, the silent member of the League of Gentlemen, Ghost Stories is a new take on an old horror standard – the short-story anthology.

Horror is a genre that lends itself perfectly to the short story, a form that is perfect for the surprise denouement, the ironic comeuppance, the rug pulled from under the feet.

Whether in the classic short stories of Saki, O Henry or Edgar Allen Poe; the mid-20th century sci-fi stylings of Bradbury, Ellison or Heinlein; TV series such as Tales of the Unexpected or Tales From the Crypt; or 70s horror anthologies like Asylum or Vault of Horror, there’s a long-time association between form and genre. The two fit together like a teenage babysitter and a call from the telephone upstairs.

Ghost Stories observes these time-honoured rules in the way that those Hammer anthologies would: a series of chilling tales bound together by an overarching narrative, in this case a lecture by the paranormal sceptic Professor Phil Goodman, played by Nyman.

Somewhat predictably, there’s more to it than that, but the authors have begged that no-one reveal the secrets of Ghost Stories, and it’s churlish to spoil the fun for others.

Suffice it to say that there are three self-contained stories that should come with spotter’s badges for horror buffs. Silent Hill seems to have provided most inspiration for a lot of the visuals, audio beds, sound stings and general creeping sense of dread that pervades the action on set and breaks through the fourth wall, infecting the theatre itself.

But the fact that Ghost Stories does not hide its many influences is not to its detriment. Although anyone well versed in horror films or literature will see twists and turns coming – they’re handily sign-posted after all – there are genuine stabs of fright, the creeping-flesh slow burn of dread and a genuine style and verve to it all.

It is, without exception, well-executed in terms of script, acting, set design, audio and visual FX. Dyson’s hand in the dark humour and direction of the narrative will be evident to anyone who’s read any of his short stories, while the little signifiers littered throughout the script will be recognised from Nyman’s work on Derren Brown’s shows.

I think the health warnings that accompany the promotional literature may be apt, there are genuine scares and a well-developed sense of the uncanny throughout.

Clearly this was too much for a good chunk of the audience who nervously laughed while, astonishingly, a minority openly talked throughout the play. Presumably the alternative of sitting in silence, the spell unbroken, was too uncomfortable; either way I thought it exceptionally bad behaviour.

It’s a symptom of hard it must be to create something genuinely chilling on stage, where audiences are unwilling to allow themselves to be too disturbed by a play. A single laugh or audible stage whisper can take an audience straight out of their suspension of disbelief.

But Ghost Stories maintained a powerful hold on me throughout. It felt like the product of two people who understood the demands, quirks and rigours of the medium perfectly – and it showed in a brilliantly entertaining, and genuinely unsettling, experience.

Andrew Beattie reviews Terry Pratchett’s Nation, which was shown at Fact earlier this month.

I am well aware of Sir Terry Pratchett’s Work. At any given moment my Dad is likely to recite lines of conversation from some of Discworld’s finest and not so fine characters chuckling to himself and leaving me with a brief insight into the undoubted kooky genius of Sir Terry.

I have often contemplated reaching into the shelf in my Dad’s office and plucking out one of Sir Terry’s novels from behind the various Discworld collectables gathered over the years but I have always stopped short, he’d immediately notice it missing for a start.

I can be forgiven then for expecting some first rate wizardry yesterday from the NT Live production of Nation screened at FACT, live theatre broadcast to a handful of Cinemas nationwide. I was of course, so very wrong.

Nation, set in a parallel universe in 1860, is the story of the bringing together of two teenagers, Mau and Daphne, after a Tsunami destroys Mau’s island and Daphne’s boat, stranding them together, along with Daphne’s talking parrot, on a small South-Pacific Island. The play follows the characters as they seek to rebuild the Nation along with other stranded refugees that have landed from neighbouring islands seeking help and all their trials and tribulations along the way.

Within minutes of his arrival on stage, the talking Parrott had me in stitches with its shouts of “Arse” and “boobs” and before I had time to fully prepare myself we had romped into Song and Dance routines that had me tapping my feet and dreaming of long white beaches and nights spent under a palm tree looking at the stars. I was hugely entertained and hooked on the story unfolding seamlessly before me.

The cast was excellent throughout and the initial misunderstandings of Mao and Daphne, played by Gary Carr and Emily Taaffe, were both touching and hilarious. The supporting cast can also be proud of a good day’s work particularly the baddie Mr Cox, played by Paul Chahidi, who turned out be a right bastard and of course the excellent aforementioned talking parrott Milton, played by Jason Thorpe.

The highlights of the performance for me were the extraordinarily vivid underwater scenes, excellent lighting and vivid backdrops creating a mystical underwater world, and the puppets, the repulsive feasting grandfather birds and a large two man beer drinking pig.

As a result of a most enjoyable afternoon spent watching what turned out to be a fantastic NT Live Production and after a fleeting glimpse into the mind of Sir Terry I’ll be going now to raid the fabled bookshelves so that I can return, for a few hours at least, to the Nation.

• View more of Andrew Beattie at Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Director of Legal Services, Kevan Ryan, has apparently fired off some missives to Wordpress that led to the closure of a number of blogs that had repeated certain allegations from The Guardian and Private Eye against VC Howard Newby.

Wordpress pulled the blog, then reinstated all but one of them without the supposedly offending articles, which included speculation on Newby’s relationship with some sort of consultancy firm called Spirit of Creation.

Newby first came to my attention when UofL decided that trifling subjects like Philosophy and Politics should be dispensed with, presumably in favour of far more lucrative worthwhile sciences.

I don’t know much more about Newby, though I’m disappointed that the university hasn’t seen fit to appoint a new VC with a puntastic noun for a surname – Philip Love and Drummond Bone were a sub’s dream.

I’ve no wish to get embroiled in what exactly has been going on here, but it’s funny how UofL hasn’t really changed one jot in the decade since I last had anything to do with it.

My repeated clashes with the University as editor of the student newspaper weren’t exactly worthy of any Pulitzers, but they were a useful means of cutting one’s teeth.

We dug up all sorts of dirt, which admittedly had not been particularly well hidden, and showed up the University for what it was: bungling and amateurish.

Little seems to have changed. In firing off a takedown to Wordpress because of two posts that were over two years old, the UofL has ensured that those blogs have probably received 100 times the exposure they’d have otherwise had.

It’s quite possible there was nothing in the original accusations, and the difficulty in finding any incriminating articles from the broadsheets in search engines suggests they’ve been taken down too. Or has Ryan simply baulked at taking on media well versed in defending accusations of defamation?

Because the possibility that inoffensive stuff like this is what the allegations amount to means the whole thing will have been a huge shot in the foot for UofL and Newby.

What a silly thing to do. But it’s reassuring in a strange way to know that some things always remain the same.

• Read more here and here.

• When the university complained that we only published bad news, we printed the (admittedly childish) piss-taking article called The University of Liverpool Good News Column, reprinted here in all its glory.

Most of my working day was spent writing about how to drive in snowy conditions and how to look after your car in situations like the ones we’re currently experiencing.

From what I’ve seen no-one has read this information, as the amount of people driving with their cars covered in snow, revving their engines in low gears, peering through obscured windscreens and driving too quickly or too slowly seems to indicate that we’ve lost any kind of ability we used to have to deal with a bit of snow.

However, motorists are not being helped by Liverpool City Council at the moment. I don’t care about the stats about how much grit they’ve got, I don’t care what they say they’re doing – whatever it is, it’s not enough.

It took me about 45 minutes to drive from the city centre back to Lark Lane today, partly because Parliament Street was an ice rink. If you think about the incline on Parliament Street this clearly becomes problematic. Most cars are not equipped to go up icy hills.

Buses were abandoned, motorists stranded in their cars in the middle lane, cars losing the battle against gravity and sliding down the street backwards. Nowhere was there any evidence of gritting, or of any attempt to clear the snow. It was mayhem.

I wouldn’t normally complain about something like this – shit happens after all and services are probably strained at this time of year. But for several days before Christmas, too, Liverpool was a disaster zone. Roads and pavements alike were impassable.

On my way out of the city a bloke came around a corner too fast; with cars on either side of the road we could only brake, and looked at each other as we helplessly slid towards each other. We just about escaped unscathed

The night before I was out on Lark Lane, and saw a young woman perform one of the most acrobatic and painful-looking falls I’d ever seen. Embarrassed she dusted herself down and limped away.

I don’t know why Liverpool seems so determined to abandon its citizens to the hazards of icy roads and footpaths. The authorities have had ample warning, and there was little evidence that anything was going to be done in the several days of ice we had in December.

Who’s responsible? Local governments are responsible for everything within their boundaries beyond motorways and A roads but you could tie yourself up in knots trying to find out who the ultimate authority is.

What I do know is that Liverpool is letting its people down badly, and it’s not good enough.

Enough of that unpleasantness

Anyway, I took some photos on the trusty ancient Samsung on my trek back to my car from the business district to Jamaica Street via Liverpool One.

The first thing I noticed was how deserted Chapel Street, Rumford Street and Water Street were. It’s usually nose-to-tail at 5pm and it provided a chilling insight into what Liverpool might actually look like if the planned-for zombie apocalypse came, or England actually had an integrated transport strategy.

It wasn’t just roads either. Pavements, pubs and shops were all deserted. The occasional bus, empty and dark, passed by. Derby Square was under at least four inches of snow.

Liverpool One provided the only evidence that any effort was being made to make thoroughfares safe for pedestrians, with a path cleared and some grit on the ground.

But even here it was deserted, without even the odd snowball thrown by one of the emos that haunt the place throughout the day. The wheel was closed, with snow covering the structure.

A mate texted later on to tell me how amazing the place looked, and followed it up with another rather less cheerful text five minutes later to say he’d fallen over and had to be helped to his feet.

Jamaica Street and Park lane were treacherous underfoot, with one car stalled in the middle of the road. I stopped to help some lads push it to the side of the road.

As we did a girl was beeped, unfairly by a car that couldn’t move because of the obstruction anyway. In shock she fell over. As I continued up the road she walked behind me on the phone to a mate, recounting what had just transpired in an eee!-laden conversation so high-pitched dogs’ ears must have been pricked for miles around.

The smear of white across the left-hand side of this picture show the column of traffic moving steadily down the street, at a few miles an hour and careering wildly.

Reaching the car took 20 minutes, cleaning it off and warming the car took another ten.

Half way down Park Road a van was loaded with scallies smashing snow balls into passing cars.

A fraught drive home, full on wheelspinning, slow-motion driving and more sideway action than an episode of Top Gear followed.

On the whole I like snow, and I don’t have a lot of time for the BRITAIN LOSES £10BN BECAUSE OF SNOW headline we’ll inevitably see tomorrow.

This time last year I was out snowballing and drawing enormous snow-cocks in Sefton Park, but the flipside of it is our total inability to cope with some mildly challenging weather.

Rather than be prepared to work remotely, sort out our roads and pavements and do a bit of simple car maintenance and sensible driving we engage in this absurd ritual of crashing cars, walking through miles of freezing weather and breaking hips.

It’s symptomatic of a country that’s lost its marbles, and that’s before the sodding Tories get in. God help us.