You will be aware what an awful, boring place Leahurst* is. After all, one does not run the apper for twenty-five years without acquainting oneself with the area somewhat. I would firstly like to offer congratulations on the twenty-five years the Leahurst Courier has been in print, and also turn Ypur - and others' - attention to a most pressing subject.
Certainly, one will agree that there is a great lot to do in Liverpool, but Liverpool is several miles away from Our Humble Town, and most of us cannot be bothered to travel to the city every day to find something to do with the dank afternoons and evenings we find knocking about. So what is tehre to do in Leahurst on a Saturday or Sunday? Having been living in teh area for forty-four years, I can safely give You a grand tour of the facilities we have to offer:
Firstly, the morning constitutional. Who doesn't love waking up in the middle of the night to take a walk in the pleasant fields and featureless landscapes of the Wirral? this one costs absolutely nothing and it is not hard to find a path that leads through the grim, dark woods with pigeons in the trees and rubbish at the sides of a path that is dark and pot-holed with puddles of a dangerous depth. And if young people don't like the woods - how about a field, where, if you are caught, a farmer will hunt you down with a combine harvester.
Alas, the territorial nature of Liverpudlian farmers cannot be helped, but people could at least clear up the rubbish.
But some don't like to walk - they like to swim. The closest thing we have here in Leahurst to a swimming-pool is the [Irish] Sea, which is a sort of murky brown colour and has ice cubes and dead fish floating in it. The sand is permanently damp and grey, like the depressed sky you can play under, and booby-trapped with bits of squidgy seaweed in inopportune places. Sometimes the tide goes out so fast that that one moment you could be swimming along in eight feet of viscous water and the next you're face down in a pile of brine - trust me - I've had that experience. But if tourists visiting the Wirral don't like ridiculously-coloured houses under the grey sky or gorge happily on soggy ice-cream, or visit the local co-operative with a relish, then I don't know what they will enjoy.
Actually, I might. Being no walker o sailor myself (not that one could sail these waters with anything more than a rubber dinghy), I doknow of several places, where one can whittle away his Saturday or Sunday. These places sell moonshine and Heineken, that awful old dishwater, in translucent cups, and will cheerfully sell you slurry on a plate, whilst conversing with you on the football. These houses are dank and nooky, and full of taxidermical** experiments, miserable pheasants and drooping foxes. There are bits of old food under the table, and the chairs are sticky. The air is thick, and old.
You'll agree with me, dear Editor, that frequenting a pub is the only thing we really can do in the Wirral that doesn't give us broken limbs or hypothermia. There is nothing - NOTHING - to do in Leahurst but twiddle our thumbs and toes in front of a beer, and though Health and Safety wish our conditions could be improved, I do not wish it so. It is comfortable here.