Loki Goes To Liverpool: Tuesday
Just back from a whirlwind tour of what seemed to be the most astonishing places.
Tuesday: Train from Euston to Liverpool Lime Street. Turbo-fast, there in two hours. (Whereas just getting to Euston from my house took 1hr 20mins.) Train very impressive, Lime Street filled with people who seemed just to be having a good time being alive. A good start.
Checked in to the Hard Day's Night hotel; expected swish, seamless and fantastic service. Got a perplexed receptionist who insisted - despite me producing a printout of their confirmation - that our booking had been for the previous day. Much faffing later and we are checked in. She then advises loudly and in front of S that the champagne that should have been in our room (and I had arranged as a surprise) obviously wasn’t there. She promised to have it with us in half an hour. She lied.
Our room was on the fourth floor, with views across the rooftops of the city centre, but a Livejournal is being an arse I can’t share any of it with you. (I despise this site. Can anyone help me get the hell off it and on to a more reliable client?)
Forty five minutes later we decide to wander out to the waterfront, asking for the champagne to be held over til 5pm when some friends were joining us for a drink before we had to dash off to see Big Dave Morrissey in ‘Macbeth’ at the Everyman.
We wandered off and saw things, none of whicH I am able to share due to LJ's twattish behaviour today.
When we got back to the hotel I checked in again that the champagne would be ready for 5. I was promised by the smile behind the desk that all would be arranged.
Whilst the lounge bar at the Hard Day’s Night is something special to look at and really impressive, being decked out in some of the most striking Beatles imagery, it wasn’t what I’d call atmospheric. Table service is a wonderful thing when the tables are properly serviced. That wasn’t the case here I am afraid, with one immaculately turned out bar waiter failing spectacularly to notice when people seated at tables want to spend cash. After one extortionately-priced G&T we gave up trying to attract his attention and decided to sod off to our room to get ready.
Beforehand, I checked in again that the champagne would be ready for 5.15. I was promised by the smile behind the desk that all would be arranged. This time, they kept their word for when we came back to the bar at 5.15 a table was reserved and glasses set out garnished with strawberries. A very lovely bar waitress brought the champagne over and we set to making it disappear. Shortly we were joined by the unbelievably lovely Lee and Sandy, who were as delightfully funny and amiable as could be. Two years plus of communication via tweets and emails did not lead to stilted silences, but to laughter, chat and huge hugs filled with genuine affection and friendship.
All too quickly we had to depart to the theatre, stopping off briefly at the grand-sounding Philharmonic Dining Rooms for a beautifully prepared... Yes, G&T. The Philharmonic is a time capsule, a beautifully maintained Victorian pub with mosaic floors, wood panelling, stained glass, gleaming brass (and as S’ mum later told me, ‘world-famous’ gentlemens’ toilets. Sadly, I could not gain access to them with my camera.)
A quick sprint up to the Everyman, to find we’d been allocated perfect seats three rows back from the stage. The design was of the type increasingly popular with companies performing Shakespeare for the modern era; a battered, industrial and functional backdrop with doors, trapdoors and staircases to represent the different levels of the building all cleverly incorporated into the design.
I am delighted to report that - despite my fears, because I did not believe he could possibly be good at everything - Big Dave’s stage acting was near faultless, with only a suppressed giggle letting him down briefly when Duncan fluffed a line and ostentatiously corrected himself.
The direction was a mixed bag; while there were moments of brilliance and some truly creative positioning of the cast around the stage at key times, they would more often than not fizzle out as the action developed and leave me wondering why at a missed opportunity to do something that could have really made the audience gape.
We wandered home to the hotel happily, stopping to eat (and wonder why so many curry houses are named 'A Passage To India') before crashing happily to sleep to dream of air-drawn daggers, blasted heaths and bloody hands...
Tuesday: Train from Euston to Liverpool Lime Street. Turbo-fast, there in two hours. (Whereas just getting to Euston from my house took 1hr 20mins.) Train very impressive, Lime Street filled with people who seemed just to be having a good time being alive. A good start.
Checked in to the Hard Day's Night hotel; expected swish, seamless and fantastic service. Got a perplexed receptionist who insisted - despite me producing a printout of their confirmation - that our booking had been for the previous day. Much faffing later and we are checked in. She then advises loudly and in front of S that the champagne that should have been in our room (and I had arranged as a surprise) obviously wasn’t there. She promised to have it with us in half an hour. She lied.
Our room was on the fourth floor, with views across the rooftops of the city centre, but a Livejournal is being an arse I can’t share any of it with you. (I despise this site. Can anyone help me get the hell off it and on to a more reliable client?)
Forty five minutes later we decide to wander out to the waterfront, asking for the champagne to be held over til 5pm when some friends were joining us for a drink before we had to dash off to see Big Dave Morrissey in ‘Macbeth’ at the Everyman.
We wandered off and saw things, none of whicH I am able to share due to LJ's twattish behaviour today.
When we got back to the hotel I checked in again that the champagne would be ready for 5. I was promised by the smile behind the desk that all would be arranged.
Whilst the lounge bar at the Hard Day’s Night is something special to look at and really impressive, being decked out in some of the most striking Beatles imagery, it wasn’t what I’d call atmospheric. Table service is a wonderful thing when the tables are properly serviced. That wasn’t the case here I am afraid, with one immaculately turned out bar waiter failing spectacularly to notice when people seated at tables want to spend cash. After one extortionately-priced G&T we gave up trying to attract his attention and decided to sod off to our room to get ready.
Beforehand, I checked in again that the champagne would be ready for 5.15. I was promised by the smile behind the desk that all would be arranged. This time, they kept their word for when we came back to the bar at 5.15 a table was reserved and glasses set out garnished with strawberries. A very lovely bar waitress brought the champagne over and we set to making it disappear. Shortly we were joined by the unbelievably lovely Lee and Sandy, who were as delightfully funny and amiable as could be. Two years plus of communication via tweets and emails did not lead to stilted silences, but to laughter, chat and huge hugs filled with genuine affection and friendship.
All too quickly we had to depart to the theatre, stopping off briefly at the grand-sounding Philharmonic Dining Rooms for a beautifully prepared... Yes, G&T. The Philharmonic is a time capsule, a beautifully maintained Victorian pub with mosaic floors, wood panelling, stained glass, gleaming brass (and as S’ mum later told me, ‘world-famous’ gentlemens’ toilets. Sadly, I could not gain access to them with my camera.)
A quick sprint up to the Everyman, to find we’d been allocated perfect seats three rows back from the stage. The design was of the type increasingly popular with companies performing Shakespeare for the modern era; a battered, industrial and functional backdrop with doors, trapdoors and staircases to represent the different levels of the building all cleverly incorporated into the design.
I am delighted to report that - despite my fears, because I did not believe he could possibly be good at everything - Big Dave’s stage acting was near faultless, with only a suppressed giggle letting him down briefly when Duncan fluffed a line and ostentatiously corrected himself.
The direction was a mixed bag; while there were moments of brilliance and some truly creative positioning of the cast around the stage at key times, they would more often than not fizzle out as the action developed and leave me wondering why at a missed opportunity to do something that could have really made the audience gape.
We wandered home to the hotel happily, stopping to eat (and wonder why so many curry houses are named 'A Passage To India') before crashing happily to sleep to dream of air-drawn daggers, blasted heaths and bloody hands...