In June of 2003 Tessa Jowell, the then culture secretary, announced that in 2008 Liverpool would become the European Capital of Culture. The city beat five other hopefuls — Bristol, Birmingham, Cardiff, Newcastle and Oxford.
In welcoming the result, the head of the judges, Sir Jeremy Isaacs, declared that it was Liverpool’s stunning dockside development, its city centre and ‘strong visual arts’ that had boosted its chances. Council chief executive David Henshaw described the win as staggering, although not surprising, as the whole city had been behind the bid. Liverpool, he said, is growing up. We’ve got history and we should be proud of our history, but in the past we’ve been prisoners of our history. He was, of course, referring to the slave trade. Mark Story, leader of Liverpool City Council, remarked that the result was like winning the Champions League, Everton winning the double, and the Beatles regrouping all on the same day — that and Steven Spielberg coming to the city to make a Hollywood blockbuster about it.
In the autumn of 1933, J.B. Priestley travelled across England, from Southampton to the Black Country, from Tyne and Tees to the flat stretches of East Anglia, and wrote a rambling but truthful account of what one man saw, heard, thought and felt during his journey. Fifty years later I took part in a documentary series following in his footsteps, during which I returned to Liverpool, city of my birth and home in my youthful years.
I wasn’t and never will be an objective traveller. There are people who live in the present and those who live for the future. There are others who live in the past. It would seem we have little choice; early on, life dictates our preferences. All my parents’ bright days had ended before I was born. They faced backward. In doing so they created within me so strong a nostalgia for time gone that I have never been able to appreciate the present or look to the future.
The very things that Mr Priestley deplored, and which in part have been swept away, are the things I lament, particularly in regard to Liverpool — the narrow streets, the old-fashioned houses, the flower ladies in Williamson Square, the overhead railway that ran from Dingle to Gladstone dock, the illuminated hoardings above the picture palaces in Lime Street, the majestic funnel boomings on the Dock road heralding the arrival and departure of ships. I lived in Huskisson Street in an area now known as Toxteth, next door to an albino lady from Scotland who was married to a Portuguese West African. They had 19 children. In winter they smashed up the furniture to burn on the fire. Once I saw the eldest boy chase his father round the backyard with an axe. In conversation he referred to his father, fondly, as ‘that coloured bastard, me Dad’. Long ago, surgeons lived in Toxteth, gentlemen of independent means, military tailors, harbour masters, even Alois Hitler, half-brother to Adolf. When they died and the city grew shabbier their inheritors left for Cheshire, Southport and the Wirral. The little shops were taken over by the Chinese, the houses by the actors from the Royal Court, Playhouse and Empire theatres, the musicians from the Philharmonic Hall and the students at the university.
In 2008 Liverpool will be engaged in a long festival featuring architecture, ballet, comedy, literature, music, opera, cinema, science and theatre. I’ve left out food and fashion, which are listed, because I don’t feel they come under the heading of culture, though one fears these two omissions may prove the most popular.
The list of events is promising, if diverse. The opening ceremony on St George’s Plateau is to be co-directed by Jayne Casey, co-founder of Liverpool’s world-famous Creamano — I have no idea what or who that is. Then there’s a month-long Anne Frank festival aimed to alert young children to the dangers of hatred and persecution. On 25 January there is a world première, staged by the Liverpool Everyman and the Playhouse in association with the Hampstead Theatre, of the play Three Sisters in Hope Street, by Tracy-Ann Oberman. The day after, no less a figure than the Archbishop of Canterbury will give a lecture in Liverpool Cathedral to commemorate the victims of the Holocaust. It will, it is hoped, highlight the ever-present dangers of racism, anti-Semitism and all forms of discrimination.
A number of events will follow, including an abridged version of a Shakespeare play performed by 16- to 21-year-olds, monthly cabaret evenings on board Walk the Plank’s theatre ship in Canning Dock, a creative collaboration between Fact (the Federation Against Copyright Theft) and Alder Hey hospital exploring the impact of sound on the human body, and many concerts given by the Liverpool Philharmonic orchestra. I don’t know much about music but I did attend performances conducted by Sir Malcolm Sargent, he who was known as Flash Harry. When I was 19 a boil on my neck exploded in the middle of a cello recital by Pablo Casals. Some time during the year, no date yet given, the Bluecoat School building, revamped and added to, will be reopened.
My heart sinks at this last prospect. In my day the Bluecoat was a modest old building with studios for artists and a club room where dinners were held. My father-in-law, Harold Hinchcliffe Davies, was a member when, about to be made bankrupt, he threw himself off a mountain in Wales. Long before, it was a school for orphans who, dying from smallpox, starvation and broken hearts, were buried in the sunken cemetery below the cathedral alongside the remains of Mrs Hemans, the woman who wrote the poem starting ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’. The children’s communal grave has long since gone, dug up for the sake of ‘improvement’. Even so, it’s still exhilarating to stand in Hope Street facing the river and the distant hills of Wales, the cathedral rising pink as a rose into the northern sky.
It is to be hoped that the cultural year will lead to Liverpool regaining its place as a city of importance. It tried once before, almost 30 years ago, when there were riots and Michael Heseltine gave the council £23 million to build a garden centre. Then, the political machinery had broken down, the City Council was impoverished and London and Mrs Thatcher were in control. Things are different now, or so we must believe.
If I sound unenthusiastic, it’s because I’m not entirely sure who will support the proposed events, only some of which may be accurately described as cultural. There are tourists, of course, but they already come in their droves, to visit the Cavern club made famous by the Beatles. Nor am I sure that the average Liverpudlian will be able to afford ticket prices, seeing that a fair proportion of them rely on national assistance.
Some months ago I revisited my town just for the day. I was certainly ‘stunned’ by the Dockside development and the glass erection nudging the glory of the Cunard building. But then, I’m stuck in the past and my Liverpool has gone for ever.