The theme continues into Sunday morning, but this time with more action. Also with less regard for clashes of kit or the integrity of the pitch boundaries. The result was the same though: 1-0, this time to the blacks, if you can tell the difference. But it mattered to them.
“Who you calling a Liver Bird? I ain’t no Liver Bird. Call me that again and I will eat your chips.”
St Luke’s, Liverpool, was your basic, big urban church until the night of May 6th 1941, when the Luftwaffe decided to do some remodelling. It has been left like this ever since, as a memorial to all those who died in WW2.
How’s my symmetry on this shot? Hmmmm…. it’ll do. Apart from the barrier on the right-hand side, anyway. These kinds of thing always seem to be there to vex us. The other visitor, I’ll let him off.
The FA Sunday Cup might not seem like much to the rest of the world but about 600 people turned up today at Lower Breck FC’s stadium, in Liverpool, to see one of the quarter-finals. The tension seems to be getting to this guy: he’s about to see the home team (Pineapple) go out 0-2 to the visiting Trooper team from the West Midlands, anyway.
Some pubs are just superb inside, and I discovered today that The Central in Liverpool, just round the corner from Lime Street station, is certainly among them. Keeping those mirrors free of grime must be a full-time job (although probably easier than it was when smoking was still allowed in pubs) and this is just a small part of the whole. But what I really like about this picture is the way that the reflection of the woman on the screen looks like she has turned into the bride at some major Indian wedding.
Have we only just made it to October? Blimey.
The other side of the Mersey, that is. Hence, on the (recently updated) stats this photo counts as one in Birkenhead, not Liverpool. But Liverpool is what you see here, including both its cathedrals: Catholic (a.k.a. “Paddy’s Wigwam“) on the left, the Anglican one on the right.
So I was just passing through Woolton, a suburb of Liverpool, today, and passed these gates to the Salvation Army children’s home of Strawberry Field. Around the corner, on Menlove Lane, grew up a certain John Lennon, who used to enjoy the annual Sally Army parties, where the brass bands played and he would play in the garden. In 1966 he began tossing around some ideas for a psychedlic pop epic about these memories — and the rest, you probably know. The original building was demolished in the 1970s, but it still functions as a visitor centre and, as you can see, attracts the occasional pilgrim.
As good an illustration of the encroachment of sand dunes as you could show to a geography class. That sign is of current design and cannot have been there all that long, but of the ‘shared path’ which it once indicated, there is now no other evidence at all.
The docks are those of Liverpool, by the way. Did I stay at home today? Nope.
A day out in Liverpool with Joe. The day as a whole was a good one, but let’s not talk about the football match later on. More agreeable was the Slavery Museum on Albert Dock, which while rather (understandably) depressing in places was certainly interesting — if not very big. These are Igbo carvings, I believe. The message in the back is pertinent. But yes, the black line, separating the panes of glass in the display cabinet, does bother me.
This pic was taken on my phone, as something happened today which has always been a possibility — I didn’t charge the camera battery properly and after the first picture of the day, when we were already on our journey, it died. Phone cameras these days do just as good a job of course, so act well as a backup. But one of these days a technical fail may well lead to a day with no photo: the most likely one I can think of being that my SD card breaks when I try to upload pictures the morning after, and thus too late to grab any emergency replacement. I hope that never happens of course, but I do wonder what my reaction would be. After (so far) 3,061 consecutive days of photography it would be something of a blow, to be sure.
I once started digging over a neglected patch of weeds in our allotment and a few weeks later was still going, pulling out all sorts of junk including an old oil drum and substantial remnants of what, thirty years before, had probably been a greenhouse. It was a pain in the arse, but nevertheless I did wonder what I was going to find, so it had a strange fascination to it. A dead body, I was expecting at one point.
Imagine then the feelings of the guys who in 1974 started digging a well a few miles from Xi’an, in China, and uncovered the first inklings of the massive army of thousands of life-size clay figures that we now call the Terracotta Warriors. Forty-four years later, they’re still digging and still pulling them out. Seven of the figures are currently off on a world tour, and presently displayed in an exhibition in the World Museum, Liverpool. It’s their individuality that impresses — and yet, it was probably easier for the makers to construct them all different rather than all the same, as each was made individually, not mass-produced in a mold. They don’t do much, of course — but they were worth seeing. At least, it gives you an insight into just how megalomaniac were ancient rulers like Emperor Qin.
Being 42 