The rotten bastards

Years ago, I went to Scouserland for the first time. March 2004 maybe. A whole bunch of folks were there, blurry recollection of the evening seems to involve a chunky lass with an inflateable guitar. Hmmm, classy.


Managed to keep my hubcaps though, which was a good thing; Just after I picked up Christine the Hellhound Honda. Maybe I should have saved myself the hassle there and then and parked the bitchin the Mersey. Hey ho. Anyhoo. There were grumbles at the time amongst the older blokes "there's got to be some decent ale somewhere in this town" as the rotten bunch of bottom feeders made me drink in Flares, Chicago Rock and all the other chain fun pub crapholes in the Cavern District. All of them. Do you realise just how many shit pubs you can fit in a very small space of town, and then cram full of people with curly hair and 'taches who constantly go "ay ay ay" and nick your wheel hubs? Decent ale. Ah, a distant dream that night. But, unbeknownst to us, indeed there was. Only twenty yards from where I was suffering death by rubbish lager. And here it is.




That's the White Star. Decent little boozer as it stands. A bad place to be if you can't stand The Beatles, and it's full of maritime stuff too as befits it's name. Not a great place though, at least not in the context of the town which is so jam packed full of first rate boozers that you're spoiled; The Phillly; The Dispensary; Doc Duncans; The Ship and Mitre; my fav the Baltic Fleet; Roscoe Head, I could write a couple of days off there. In fact I just have. And all that time, it was within the distance I can throw a scrawny little programmer in a shiney shirt while they made me listen to loud musak and drink pisswater lager? Gah, gah and thrice gah!