NO I HAVEN'T STARTED!!!

Forgive the shouty title and the exclamation marks. I normally hate them but this time of year and without being too bah humbug about it, just make me want to get my forehead tattooed with something like "No, I haven't started my shopping now ask me a fucking interesting question or don't ask me at all". But that would be a bit long and not very attractive for a tattoo. And besides, I'm a nice person really...on the facade...scratch a bit and I'm a narky old woman with a cancerous knot.

Why do people go stupid at this time of year? Or are they stupid all year round and this just brings out the worst in them? I suspect the latter. Don't you hate those smug bastards who have everything wrapped in September? Well I don't want your early pressie that you probably bought in March when you were breezing through BHS and saw that it had 20% off. I'm actually offended that I might have gone through your mind as the sort of person who would like that sort of tat in those circumstances. Think of me as the drunken cow who dances inappropriately at weddings or the one who hates mustard or anything... just not someone who would like a nice neat nightie for £7.99. Wrapped three months before I open it...

And as for e - cards. For fuck's sake what is that all about? I'd rather have no card than an e - card. I can't hang an e - card up. I can't recycle it. Which I would if it's the environment you were worried about. And it certainly doesn't make me think - "ooh, shit, I forgot them. Better run the Post Office right now". No, it just makes the knot grow bigger as I click on the present, click on the tree, click on Santa's fucking nose... Oh how I wish Mille Jackson had written a song about this.

So, bringing out the worst in people? That's friggin' obvious.

YouTube - Behind the Rent Strike - 1974

YouTube - Behind the Rent Strike - 1974

Just when I was about to give up...

I was beginning to think I wasn't cut out for this blogging lark. It just gets in the way of having a life...

Then I was proved totally wrong when I went out into the yard to feed the hens. And there I found...our/their first egg. Oh joy of joys. What a day. It's small and brown and never has an egg been so celebrated. There's something very satisfying about this whole business and if you can't post a blog on a day like this, well...there really is no point.

Meanwhile the BF's film had its premiere in Liverpool at the Philharmonic Hall last week and was a triumph. It's also playing the London Film Festival this weekend and then on general release on 31st October, which happens to be the same day as the new Bond movie is out.

So hopefully Ena, Minnie or Martha, for I know not who laid the first egg, has given me the inspiration to carry on informing you of this Kirkby Girl's antics. After all, I don't want to keep all my eggs in one basket...

Meet Ena, Minnie and Martha...

They're a bit wary at the moment but I reckon it's only a matter of time before I've got them on the couch watching The Wire with me...

Coming home to roost...

I haven't even delighted you with fake tales of San Francisco...Las Vegas...and LA and I have three new little Kirkby Girls to introduce you to. Technically they're from Frodsham but I'm hoping they'll come to idolise their leader over the next few days.

They are in fact, chickens. Hens. Supplier of tasty eggs for the family for many months to come. So new that only one of them has been christened yet. She's Martha and she's white.

Pictures and all that come with it over the next few days. Deadlines, schmeadlines...

I need an audience...

Or at least to know that one is there...

Father's Day is a short film by Steve Hughes starring Yours Truly. Watch and comment away for God's sake.

Attention Seeking Bitch

Father's Day

It's blogging girl, but not as we know it...

I've stolen this from The Queen of Staving off... who in turn stole it from someone else but it seems as good a way as any to keep you entertained until I can get my shit together with witty stories from San Luis Obisbpo and the likes...

1. My uncle once: led a double life, like a soap cliché.

2. Never in my life: will I vote Tory.

3. When I was five: I looked like one of The Children of the Damned.

4. High school was: non-existent. I went to a senior school. It's since been closed down.

5. I will never forget: that I'm a Kirkby Girl. Unless I get Alzheimer's in which case I'm hoping I believe I'm Jackie Onassis.

6. Once I met: Batman. I won't say which incarnation.

7. There’s this girl I know: who would relish the chance to go to a Royal Garden Party.

8. Once, at a bar: I saw Samuel L Jackson.

9. By noon, I’m usually: Drinking tea, surfing the net, avoiding work.

10. Last night: a DJ saved my life.11. If only I had: been a bit shorter I could have had Bridget Fonda's role in Scandal.

12. Next time I go to church: I hope it's in Rome.

13. What worries me most: is something horrible happening to my kids.

14. When I turn my head left I see: a fantastic map of the world that was used daily by a shipping company.

15. When I turn my head right I see: the magic cupboard. It contains everything you need.

16. You know I’m lying when: I fill in stuff like this. Or do you?

17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: My rakish figure.

18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Yorick. Who cares?

19. By this time next year: I'll have that rakish figure back.

20. A better name for me would be: I have all the nom de plumes I could wish for.

21. I have a hard time understanding: Golf. And all it stands for.

22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: be a grade A student.

23. You know I like you if: I ask questions. I'm interested.

24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: Certainly not God.

25. Take my advice, never: get your teeth whitened.

26. My ideal breakfast is: The Guardian, earl grey tea, croissants.

27. A song I love but do not have is: "Ain't Nobody" by Chaka Khan.

28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: Go to the Everyman Bistro.

29. Why won’t people: be nicer to each other.

30. If you spend a night at my house: I hope you like earl grey tea.

31. I’d stop my wedding for: a cup of earl grey.

32. The world could do without: Cancer.

33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: Vote Tory.

34. My favourite blonde(s) is/are: me…

35. Paper clips are more useful than: tetra packs.

36. If I do anything well it’s: have a laugh.

37. I usually cry: at the beginning of It's a Wonderful Life.

38. My advice to my child/nephew/niece: would be to do it all.

39. And by the way: I tried to say I'd be there.

Oh, she said it was okay to steal it. And so did the person she stole it from. So, feel free. And let me know what you think.

Coming soon...

Does anyone care? Has anyone missed me? What's been happening while I was away?

Well she's still blogging. He's started blogging and James Corden has made a twat out of himself by slagging off Hollyoaks and a job he had eight whole years ago. Get over yourself.

But more on that...and my tales from LA, Las Vegas and San Francisco over the weekend.

It's good to be back.

And there was me thinking it was going to be traumatic...

So it seems I've discovered a way to stop all those vile and horrible feelings of inadequacy and self hatred when you're off out bikini shopping.

Just abandon all shame and take a bored and irritated 15 year old with you. Once you've decided you don't care what you look like because you'll be so far out of your usual comfort and time zone and the said 15 year old has had enough of shopping and grunts that "are you getting that one, then hurry up" in a Kevin fashion, then it's simple.

Voila - in my mind when I hit Venice Beach I should look something like the picture on the right. Ha. If I don't look down or in a mirror/window. Oh, who cares? It may have taken over 20 years to realise, but only me. And now I'm past caring so precisely no one cares. Also if I tell the Lovely Boyfriend that I look like a Bond Girl enough times, he'll start believing it. Or rather, he's so lovely he'll just give the right answer the first time.

And yes, that really is the bikini I came home with today. Now there's just the small problem of the holiday photos...

Ground Control to Animal Disco

The laptop says it's 00:53. I'm in bed with a magazine and two newspapers and the work for the week is done. Hurrah. I've just treated myself to episode four of Summer Heights High and the only reason I've been tempted to blog at this hour is so that a certain Scouse expat can wake up (hopefully without a tight throat...) and smell the coffee. Dollface is ready for battle again.

I caused murder at the Animal Disco when I admitted to buying the Daily Mail occasionally. Ha. I love a good fight. And now that I've learned to share links (yay) maybe we can spread a little...unhappiness?

So what have I been up to? Is anyone interested? I'm wondering whether my time spent blogging (or not) would be better served writing a play/novel/film. Hmm. My daughter turned 18. That was fantastic. My son wants a dog. That will be a no. And my new stainless steel worktops are beautiful and mean I will have to stay home forever (basically because I can't afford to do anything else now...) and learn to cook and polish them until my hands are raw. Wait now, that might be far too white, middle class ladies who lunch for a certain commenter at the Animal Disco. If that doesn't make sense, see the previous link and go to the I Love David post.

I'm sure I've been doing lots of other exciting things too. Oh yeah, today I had a traumatic experience involving a smear test and an incompetent nurse. Does that count and is it too much information. Like I care...

How much do Half Man Half Biscuit make you smile?

Joy of joys. Just been sent the video for No Regrets and now have the biggest smile on my face. Not just because the Kirkby Girl and her beautiful daughter feature in the video...and the lovely Brian King (RIP, Brenda) ...but because how could you not love this band? Or Margi for that matter. Directed by Jamie Reid, shot by the Lovely Boyfriend and also starring Plinky Plonky the famous Liverpool tramp (let's not get PC here) this day stands out as one in my history that was just a great laugh.

Mel, you're in for a treat. See you Friday.

HALF MAN HALF BISCUIT feat. MARGI CLARKE-NO REGRETS

Mental Notes Get Lost...make a mental note of that

I was wondering round the shops yesterday...actually that's not true. I went to two shops and had an argument in one, embarrassing my teenage son no end. The rest of the time we argued about my argument and somewhere in the middle of this I'm sure there was a great idea for a post here. Can I remember it? Can I buffalo?

I carry a Moleskin notebook. Unlike most other writers I even carry a pen or two. That'll teach me not to write things down. In my head it was a great idea. Really funny. Really entertaining. Are you feeling deprived? Don't be. A friend of mine once woke up in the middle of the night, scribbled down his brilliant plot for a film and awoke the next morning to find he'd written something about a banana. Like anyone who has ever lost any work...it's never as good as you think it is.

The argument if anyone is interested was fuelled by my frustration at the appalling service in this city. Yes, it's the same all over but I mostly eat and shop in Liverpool. And having just returned from America, and while I wouldn't want to be told to have a nice day every five minutes, the difference is highlighted dramatically. I went home and made a complaint to Head Office and, it gets worse...then wrote a letter to a well known celebrity hairdresser (or at least his PO Box) about dodgy shampoo bottles.

I am officially a twat. I don't deserve to have my mental notes back. Please do not return to sender if you find them

I'd rather be...sunning myself in Majorca than watching Sir Paul

I'm sorry. But it's true. Aside from the fact I never had or wanted tickets, a weekend in Port de Soller was booked in long ago. And no amount of hype was going to get me to change my mind. God, the thought didn't even cross my mind. Hello...listening to Sir Paul and whatever special guests or staying in a fancy hotel for the 40th birthday of the campest women I know (besides myself and the Animal Disco, of course)? No contest. And you should see her husband. He's even camper than she is. What's not to like?

Upon my return I find rave reviews that bang on about Sir Paul opening with Hippy Hippy Shake, followed by...you know, I can't remember. I'd lost interest by then. What's the bet that throughout the week my mates who did go try and convince me it was stunning, magical, best thing they've see so far during 2008 blah, blah, boring blah. Nope. Not convinced. Rather stick needles in my eyes.

But fear not those of you lacking in a bit of Capital Culturelness...I will go to the Klimt exhibition and you can bet your last pound I'll be down to those new shops very very soon.

All together...1, 2, 3...For Goodness sake...get a grip.

What is it with Trolley Dollies?

I am the nicest passenger on board. Picture the scene...I'm not the ex UN worker who asks for tea when it's not on offer or refuses to move for the couple with the baby who want to sit together. I'm not the couple with the baby who want to sit together and spend the first forty five minutes after they embark trying to change their seats. Despite being as together as they can in row 14 and 15. Why do they need to be any closer? Sit down and stop being so pinched and anxious looking.

So there I am being as pleasant and polite as I can. Please, thank you, no thanks, here's my rubbish...all that. Couldn't be nicer or less demanding if I tried. But maybe next time I'll try the opposite. Can I have a blanket...another pillow...more tea...another gin and tonic. Because the former behaviour only gets me the distinct feeling that the trolley dollies are sneering at me. What for? I'm trying to make their job as undemanding as possible under the circumstances. But no, I watch closely and it seems the more demanding you are, the bigger their smiles and the more pleasant their manner. Frigging bending over backwards for these awkward bastards. All I get for being nice is a patronising sneer. There's something backward about the trolley dolly behaviour, that's for sure. Maybe they get their revenge behind those stupid curtains when they spit in drinks. Who knows.

For now though, they are forgotten and I'm in San Francisco and it's hot. Maybe I'll try out some new awkward behaviour on the flight home. Maybe Animal Disco will have the answer. After all, she's not busy blogging....oops, was that a bait?

Sausages

This entire post is dedicated to the fact that I cooked the Animal Disco's (As I've said before, if I were a better blogger I could do you a link... you'll find it on here. The clue's in the title) delicious store cupboard recipe the other night. Mmm. And I haven't yet emailed to tell her personally. But the proof is in the sausage and it was even scoffed by both sons for whom one had the veggie version (patent mine) and both are normally found to fake very dramatic vomiting when faced with a stew-like dish. Top marks, Mel.

Does that count as a good blog bait or is it cheating? I'm exhausted with having to traipse around Topman for over an hour buying a prom dress for Number One son...well a suit, but you get my drift.

If only she could join me for a pick me up gin in the Ev in ten minutes life would be perfect.

Bye, bye Love.

Especially For You...

This one's going out to Mel in Percy Street (or wherever). A big Bowie shaped shout out. I've got the hangover from hell (otherwise known as the eighties). Yes, something very strange happened in God's own city this week...

It started off on Sunday night in McMillans...Lenny on the door in a dashing pink top, meeting and greeting. I think the Muscatelli sisters were in a cage dancing but I was too drunk to tell...or care. The highlight was everyone on the dancefloor for Ain't Nobody. Bless Chaka Khan...and Brenda King for that matter.

So, of course after a wonderful night, we nursed our hangover in The Tabac. All day. Over the same pot of tea, virtually. Maybe Mark Jones had a coffee. But Elaine definitely got her finger stuck in the coffee grinder and Rita definitely humiliated at least four of us. A short trip down Bold Street and we were soon back up the hill in time to throw some new drag on and head to The Ev for a few quiet drinks and to slag off whoever wasn't sitting with us in the Tabac that day. Or one of Tom's girlfriends. Same difference.

Same again Tuesday. Maybe there was some drama/crisis/Jazz went mad in the Kwiky nonsense in between. It's a blur. By Wednesday we were bright, perky and shjushed up enough to take ourselves to Gay Town. Otherwise known as Jody's. Sol danced like...no one else we'd ever known. Carlo took the piss out of...everyone . And Bammer and Sebonga stepped up to...the podium. Us girls? We "walked like a man". With Divine of course. No, we didn't go over to the dark side! We are fag hags and staying that way.

A Thursday afternoon spent in Miss Selfridge. Mel got away with bringing back a ten year old dress (which was their own fault for dragging out again this season) and we were ready to hit The Mardi. Fashionably late of course. Or was it because Sol and Mel couldn't work the living room door? That or Tom had cooked Spam again...

At the Mardi we spied McCulloch having a heated debate in the corner with Wylie. Who cares who was in The Criucial Three? They're playing Love is a Wonderful Colour and we've got to dance. Last in. Last out. And we climbed the hill, humming Nina Simone and stopping only to get some pakoras and we're still only at the top of Bold Street. Fancy coming back to mine, Dollface?

So, now it's Friday night and that was the week that was. This is the God's honest version of how Liverpool looks at the moment. Have I forgotten anything? You tell me.

N.B. Names have remained the same to protect the guilty.

I blame you lot...

I mean let's face it...it's not like I wasn't seeking fame and fortune when I started this blog. Okay, maybe that's taking its time coming but faint comment never won fair heart...or something. You get the gist. What's a girl to do when she blogs on every other day and no bugger has left a comment? Not even the Lovely Boyfriend. You know who you are. I mean it's getting embarrassing. Especially when I get quizzed on the radio about this very blog, have to bear the cross for Kirkby girls everywhere (or just in Kirkby) and for what? Silence. Is it any wonder I resort to cleaning, general fannying around and wondering when we're going to get to the bottom of who Amy Winehouse butted and why?

And to top it off it seems The Sultan's Elephant may not be coming to Liverpool after all and I have been led a merry dance. If anyone can shed any light on this, please do. It's at risk of being a Capital of Culture let down. Or maybe the elephant ate Ringo's head and has been banned from entering God's own city at all. Hmm.

Otherwise my head has been getting wrecked by work, total cunts and new kitchens. And then soothed by an excellent I Am Kloot gig and some good old fashioned juvenile humour.

So pull out your typing finger and let me know what you think. I did.

If I were a better blogger...

I'd be able to tell you that there was joy on every level with this I am Kloot video. As it stands I have to put the comment and the video in a separate post or I make the video disappear. And that wouldn't do at all.

Everyone should love I am Kloot.

Proof - I am Kloot

Rowche Rumble...or the dust has sent me mad...

Many days have passed since my last post and I've even had a telling off from The Animal Disco. Although I prefer to think of it as a gentle nudge in the right direction. Last time I wrote there was work shit and I put myself at the mercy of Mark E Smith to provide a much needed cheering up. He never fails...and you never know what will happen. Actually this time at the Academy in Liverpool he was very well behaved, swinging between three mikes and generally unable to stop fiddling with nobs that I'm sure he should have left alone.

So, the work mood settled and the builders came in. I developed an itch with the dust which is still keeping me awake at night. Highly unusual for someone who sleeps through earthquakes normally. Add to this the short lived delight at winning £500 worth of teeth whitening products. Off I went to the dentist...had the mould made...wore it to bed that night...so far, so good. However...and you knew it was coming...the next day I was the most miserable get imaginable. Teeth ached all day. Like a low level torture. And I thought I had a high pain threshold. Not so. I will live will my not so pearly whites.

Can't say I've even been inclined to seek out any culture lately. Maybe I'm over it. Maybe looking at several thousand kitchen brochures has dulled my cultural senses. Is it just me or does anyone else feel like we have too much choice these days.

And why is it called the Carphone Warehouse? Do you know anyone who has a carphone?

I'm not dead, just drinking huge amounts of earl grey tea

It's true. I'm back on City Talk 105.9fm on Saturday 15th March and have a Fall gig to tell you about.

The builders are in. Really. And I'm beginning to despair of the lack of my cultural intake. But, hey, the Bluecoat Chambers is open again tomorrow and as it's where we celebrated our wedding, I'm sure the Lovely Boyfriend and I will be heading there soon.

Don't let the budget get you down...

She kicks ass, alright...

I'm talking about Siouxsie. As you may have gathered from the previous post. And I'm wondering if there will be more amatuer gig reviews than musings on the Capital of Culture by the end of this blog's first year. But hey ho, I saw her last night at The Academy in Liverpool and yes, she certainly does still kick ass. She started off by saying it was a surreal day...mainly because downstairs on another stage was one Soapstar Superstar Richard Fleeshman. Suzie wasn't impressed. Neither was I. And my companion (Nick, goes to more gigs than anyone I know) said the first time he saw Siouxsie was 29 years ago at the Liverpool Empire. There was a near riot...caused by Siousxie kicking a bouncer in the head with her stiletto. There was blood. This date was confirmed by two lads on the next table in Ma Egerton's pre gig. Enough to make you feel old? Not one bit.

This time the audience didn't totally consist of mainly men in their forties. It seems there's a new breed of young punks who have discovered the magic. She's fifty. She's fabulous in a skintight catsuit. And she can high kick like no one's business. I want to be like that...

It was good to see she was still willing to kick a bouncer's head in but this time he got away lightly. I didn't see her the first time round but that didn't matter. We're in the here and now, she's got a new album and next time I hit the dance floor I'll be trying out a few new moves.

On other news the radio show went off fine. I didn't swear at least. I'm off to see The Fall on Friday and back on City Talk 105.9fm on Saturday 15th March.

Hands up who needs culture...

Siouxsie and the Banshees Hong Kong Garden

Turning The Place Over

Turning The Place Over

I admit, I came here to talk about the Capital of Culture and so far, so very little. I promise to get my arse into gear and download the programme of events and keep you abreast of all things cultural very soon. In the meantime, I have been to see this piece of art by Richard Wilson and it is brilliant. It's free and in Liverpool. What more could you want? Go and see it.

I'm going to try and turn the place over myself tonight by trying to get an early table for a birthday treat for the Lovely Boyfriend and my boys. Wish me luck. If I don't, I may be liable to spit on any kissing couple within...spitting distance...on my way to the chippy.

Highlights this week have included seeing Alison Moyet at The Liverpool Philharmonic and the anticipation of my appearance (vocally, not visually) on City Talk, 10 am Saturday 16th February - 105.9 fm.

I'll let you know how it goes.

I hate Valentine's Day

Well, that's not strictly true. It's here, it's queer and it's looming next week again. I tried to book a table (for eight) at a lovely restaurant called Pushka on Rodney St in Liverpool. Do eat there if you can - I guarantee the owners Glen and Doug will give you the warmest welcome and the bestest food. But Doug just laughed when I asked for a table on 14th February. This was two days ago. I was told they had their first booking for Valentine's night in October. What is wrong with these people?

It's not like I was hoping for a romantic meal for two. No, no, no. Not for me the trappings of our anniversary obsessed society. The Lovely Boyfriend happens to have his birthday on that day. Much as I love him, I balk at the thought of sharing a night with other candlelit tables for two. I can do that on any night of the week. I don't have to be told. It's so forced. So, I thought a few mates, some wine, some food, yadda yadda yadda...

How naive I was. It's my own fault, I suppose. I choose to ignore the fact that people are so organised. That they book holidays, weddings and meals out so far in advance that if I did it, I would surely forget I'd done it and miss the bloody thing anyway. I'm a creature of spontaneity. And why can't everyone else be like that too? I'm sure it would spread out evenly and we would all be able to get what we wanted, when we wanted.

If you want a great time, leave it until the last minute.

Pale Fountains - Jean's Not Happening

Listen with me...

Two gigs went part way to filling my social calendar this week - one a brand new band without a record deal and the other a reformation. Glasvegas at Korova on Wednesday and The Pale Fountains at The Academy on Saturday. Both a joy to behold. And both a million miles away from my previous outings at the new stadium. You may remember I claimed to like my gigs dark and sweaty. Well Glasvegas ticked both of those boxes with the added element of not even being able to see the band apart from the top of a couple of heads. This didn't take away from the enjoyment at all and despite them having only a small setlist, I was happy to pretend I was 19 again.

And about 19 I would have been, I reckon, when I was listening to The Pale Fountains the first time around. They're only doing two gigs - sorry if you've missed them, but you did miss out - so there's a little treat above/below...(sorry this video thing is all new to me)

Like most gigs I go to it was full of tall men of a certain age. This time they managed to restrain themselves from talking throughout. Maybe because they realised that they were in for a rare treat. Why do people pay good money to go to see their favourite bands and then proceed to chat to their mates most of the time. It's beyond me and I know several people who would rather have a talking ban at gigs than a smoking ban.

Two fantastic nights and neither one particularly happening because it's the year of the Capital of Culture. I suspect both bands probably have a healthy disinterest in the trappings of the music industry but both brought joy to my heart and ears this week. I want to spread the joy.

A Shameless Plug

A new radio station CITY TALK launches in Liverpool on Monday 28th January from the Radio City tower. As it says on the tin, it's all talk with a variety of presenters like Margi Clarke, Dean Sullivan and Daily Mirror journalist Brian Reade.

Listen out for Kirkby Girl herself, who will be making the occasional appearance on Brian's Saturday morning show (10 -12).

City Talk 105.9

End of shameless plug.

The Number One Project

Liverpool has had 56 number one singles in the hit parade. I'm not bragging or saying this for camp effect (well, that bit isn't true - I love saying things for camp effect). It's a fact. Actually, as the night of the Number One Project Concert wore on, it was discovered we've had 57 number one hits. My favourite quote of the night - "Carol Decker. T'Pau. China in Your Hand. Born in Huyton". And it wasn't even from Billy Butler. But all this must be sounding very retro and insular to anyone not born within a ten mile radius of the Liver Building. So to the concert itself...

Due to a slight ticket hiccup we arrived a few songs in and I have no idea what we missed. But the seats were good. Seven rows from the front. And in an arena that seats 10, 600 this helped us get into the spirit of things. I hate big arenas. I like my gigs small, dark and slightly sweaty. But this was different, as I hope most things during the Capital of Culture year will be for me. Part of the reason for this blog. It's at this point that I'll say half of me was going with a firm sense of irony and the other half looking forward to seeing bands like China Crisis, The Farm and Shack. Not for me the mawkish sentimentality that often abounds in this city I call home. Ha. How we laughed. Or rather how I stood up and swayed along to Ferry Across the Mersey, All Together Now and You'll Never Walk Alone. Poor Sonia, she came on far too early to get everyone on their feet. And if someone would like to explain to me what Dr and the Medics were doing there then I'd happily listen. For about three seconds...

An Evertonian friend went off to the pub before Gerry got into his stride and I doubt anyone under forty would have had a clue what Mike McCartney and Scaffold were going on about. But being present for a real life rendition of Lilly the Pink pushed all my camp, retro and irony buttons for a good few years. I can't say I'd want to do it again in a hurry but it's a great project. To find out more go to http://www.thenumberoneproject.org/ It's a charity event and a frigging brilliant idea, you've got to admit.

I'll finish with a real brag - Yours Truly puffed up with pride when Gary Daly from China Crisis dedicated Wishful Thinking to all the Kirkby Girls. Oh what a night...

Face Off

Something has been troubling me for a few days now. Facebook has been generating quite a lot of publicity, most recently in Monday's Guardian. The latest party pooper reckons that there's nothing sadder than the man who was sat at his computer on a Saturday night with a glass of wine sending messages to friends on Facebook. Excuse me, hasn't he heard Half Man, Half Biscuit singing there's nothing better than writing on the sole of your slippers on a Saturday night...? Each to their own. As the great Nigel Blackwell knows. I resent being told what I should be doing on a Saturday night, or any other time, in fact.

Too often lately I've found myself trying to justify why I joined Facebook or what I do on it. Mind your own bloody business and join up if you're that interested. It's hardly any great secret. And anyone with a computer and a service provider knows that sometimes hours can pass before anything that anyone could call useful happens. We're all guilty of it. Be it solitaire, digital spy or wikipedia...indulging in guilty pleasures is one of the best bits of the technology.

But it seems that Facebook is the current bete noire of the media, some of my mates and even the lovely boyfriend (who keeps slagging it off and then going back on). There are things I hate about it too - the endless and pointless groups that are formed. The pathetic chain mail messages. And the people who change their status update on an hourly basis. Not interested. But I don't want to be told what I shouldn't be wasting my time on when I'm messing round on the net. I have deadlines for that. We'll get over it. It will pass. For now let us enjoy nosing at other people's photos. Leave us to wonder at why some people need so many friends to prove their worth. And get back to wasting your own time.

Now, who can I poke today?

The Opening Weekend

It's to my great shame that I was largely unaware of most of the Capital of Culture happenings. This made for a lovely surprise though when I arrived in between Lime Street Station and the Liverpool Empire to join in the People's Opening Ceremony. Being a part of the crowd felt special. And also made me determined to attend as many events throughout the year as possible. This is my city and I'm about to reclaim it. Although I doubt Ringo is shaking in his boots at the threat, like Wally I'll be turning up everywhere. Maybe I should set myself a goal to see how many times I can get my grid in The Echo...

I've started off well. Thanks mainly to a trusty old friend who blagged me and the lovely boyfriend (I have issues with the words husband and partner) into the VIP reception. There was Ken Dodd, Alison Steadman, Ricky Tomlinson and you can guess the rest. Shame I missed Marc Almond.

So the Friday night extravaganza was a triumphant showcase of Liverpool, its people, its spirit and its beautiful architecture. Well done to whoever decided to use containers - I loved this reference to the great dockyards that are the waterside boundaries of the city. Precious Cargo spilled out onto St George's Plateau and we were treated to a spectacle that any creative city would have been proud of. All ending in the song. Yes, the bloody song. Ringo's special tribute to Liverpool. Me and the boyfriend disagreed at this point. It was the first time I'd heard it so I let the jury stay out until Saturday night...

And having been lucky enough to blag ( Am I a blagger or a blogger?) another two tickets for the Echo Arena concert - Liverpool the Musical, it was with no expectations that I arrived at the Albert Dock on Saturday night. The RLPO were staged in a high rise effect and led by Vasily Petrenko on his scissor lift. Lots of arial acrobatics entertained us while Echo and the Bunnymen kicked off the show. The highlight for me was Connie Lush on amazing form and The Farm who got everyone on their feet with All Together Now. Special mention to Pete Wylie in his silver (or gold, I couldn't quite tell) suit that had me wondering if he'd had a word with Roberto Cavalli about the leftover material from the Spice Girls tour. It's great to have Ringo here for the celebrations but I'm afraid the song still left me cold on a second listen. At the end of the night Ringo claimed he was this close to moving back. I know one thing's for sure - I'm not this close to buying his new album.

But ending in a few gin and tonics in The Baltic Fleet and The Everyman, after this weekend I am sure I'll be all over Liverpool like a bad rash in the Capital of Culture year.