Positive Moon

Paradise is Possible by any means necessary

Writing on Medium.

Community focused, participatory, grassroots activism. Writing available on Medium.com

Saveaways 1983 (Part One)

Me and my Mum and Dad. May 1979.

We counted the pile of 10ps on the table. We had enough for two Saveaways. Adult and child. Adult all areas. Child was all areas anyway.

Dad made the butties while I was dawdling and doing handstands against the bathroom door, making sure it was locked. Dad had a proper sulk with me the other week when he knocked me flying into the living room because I was on the other side of the door doing a handstand when he walked in. I made it worse by doing my dying fly act expecting it to be one of my brothers who had tried to kill me and knocked me into the brown Formica table. After a moment of screaming “Look what he did to me” I opened my eyes to find the man who usually comes to my rescue, scalding anyone in his path. The bathroom door was the only door in the house with a lock on it.

After brushing my teeth, rubbing my face with a wet and warm flannel coated in Palmolive soap and rubbed together to form a froth, gargling along to the tune of Ave Maria with a teaspoon of salt in a glass of warm water; I spit! Prepared to leave the bathroom and face the day with my Dad. It was going to be a good day, just me and him. I did a jiggle, a giggle, one last handstand quietly against the door, rolling into a curl onto the floor, pirouetting up, raising my leg over the sink, smiling in the mirror, touching my nose with my tongue, wriggle my shoulders, touch one ear to one shoulder and then the next, stand up straight, feel uncomfortable, wriggle about again, unlock the door. Blink my eyes. One, two. Not bad. Smile. Don’t blink again all day.

It was a bank holiday, so we had chicken butties with chicken leftover from Sunday lunch. The doctors had said due to Dad’s heart condition that he wasn’t allowed butter. I know we both had butter on our butties that day. We agreed they wouldn’t be butties otherwise. They would be margarineeees, and no one wants to eat one of them. A bottle of squash and chicken butties, with salt and butter and medium sliced bread. Divine.

Dad had been out of work since his company went bust, he was a haulage contractor and a commercial mechanic on the Dock Road in Liverpool, doing very well before I came along. By 1983 everything was gone. There was no longer any income. And the successive name had just been born into the family. Dad got angry when he saw politicians on the telly. He said they were all arseholes. If you’ve read some Kurt Vonnegut you will know what an arsehole looks like already.

I may not have been drawn to write about this day had my mind not have recently been jolted back, to a walk I had with my father in 1982. One of the last walks I had with him. My Mum used to say that life goes round in circles, taking you back to places you need to revisit. It does seem that way, we do tend to find ourselves walking down the roads we have previously been down, just as a reminder and to get a better understanding of the last time we were there. To see deeper into a situation long since passed.

It was November the 23rd 2023. A day I had planned for. Awaiting messages, clues, codes. What was it going to be? I don’t know when I started waiting for that day but it was probably a few years before. 2017 probably, but that year was all of a blur, given the circumstances. I couldn’t ever reliably remark on what happened that year. I survived, and so did those that I entered into it with, that was our blessing. We’re all still here, but one.

It was cold, the wind swirling around the Pier Head, rain changing direction between every building. Rain often fell sideways on the waterfront. We congregated, waiting for the hour and for the Ice Kream van to appear and more importantly, the Pyramid. Dazzle was waiting at the end of the landing pier. “Get in! Is right! It’s fuuking Dazzle!” I squealed. I hadn’t come to terms yet with my power of manifestation.

Dad dropped the pile of 10ps on the bus conductor’s tray. We got on at the Douglas Drive end of Moss Lane. We were on the 310 out of Maghull. This is when we had our best times, just me and my Dad. Maghull held tensions. It was indeed a nicer place to live than Norris Green but it was still fuuking grim. The bus driver handed over the two Saveways. Dad checked the date with the bus driver just to be sure before he started instructing me to rub off my silver panels. Monday 30 May 1983. It was my birthday in 11 days. I counted it out in my head and on my fingers and nose to be sure, yeah 11 days.

We got upstairs before the bus turned the corner into Foxhouse Lane, sitting in the front left seats my feet dangled from the chair. I sat down next to the window and squished my face against it, breathed out and watched the condensation from my breath spread out across the window, blurring my view. I sat back and drew a smiley face on the window then looked through the eyes to see the houses below with their gardens with big trees. I love those trees, all of them, they’ve been there all my life. Dad looked on the opposite side of the road, his favourite pub was over there. It was too early now for it to be open. I wondered if Dad would pop out for the last orders tonight. As we drove past the bungalows, I remarked how they looked like cute little doll’s houses with paper flowers all around the edges of their neat gardens. My mum loved neat little front gardens. Ours was a neat little garden, although my Dad and my brother often messed it up by parking cars on the drive to fix them, pouring oil down the path and then taking the wheels off and letting the car sit on bricks for weeks. I don’t think the neighbours liked it much either.

As we turned the corner onto Hall Road, Dad squeezed my knee, partly to stop me from kicking the panel of the bus in front of me so I didn’t annoy the driver but also to make me laugh, it got me every time. I didn’t want to laugh. I hated the sensation of having my knee squeezed but Dad did it anyway. I laughed and used it as an excuse not to look at the senior school I would be joining at the end of this summer hoping Dad wouldn’t ask me if I was excited. I wasn’t. I swung my jaw up in the air opening my mouth until my ears felt squeezed, then twisted my jaw to the side while bringing my shoulder up to my ear and then again in the other direction with the right ear towards the right shoulder. I wriggled and squeezed Dad’s knee between my thumb and index finger and whispered “The Clutching Hand”, we both laughed. Dad put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in. Being my prickly self I quickly sat up straight and placed my hands on my knees. I tensed my shoulders and held them back until we were safely past Pat Thompson’s dance studio, the best thing about Maghull until the roller rink opened. We were safely out of Maghull for the day.

Maghull was pretty in comparison to the rest of the journey into town. Arriving outside the Bus Station, the stop after Old Roan, you could feel the warmth of the day beginning to ascend on us, it was almost 10 am. The industrial fumes from the docks seemed to make it to these parts, it always smelt funny to me. You never knew if you were going to have to sit and wait for a driver while the bus engine was left running to add to the smell. Maybe that was the smell, maybe I couldn’t smell Bootle from here. I got impatient and opened up the bottle of juice, squeezing it as I drank ensuring it ran down my face and blouse. Dad took it off me, placed the lid back on the Kiaora bottle and rubbed my sticky chin. I was wriggling again and didn’t realise I had started kicking the panel until I felt the knee sensation. I tensed, sat straight and concentrated trying not to do those things.

The houses were dirty along the next bit of the road, from all the passing traffic I assumed, and not being cleaned. “I need a wee”, I said. We were at the Black Bull. Dad nodded. He waited for the bus to take off and he pressed the button and stood up, I followed. We got off the bus at the next stop. Dad said, “Let’s go and see Aunty V for elevenses, we should be just in time.” We crossed over the road, over the bridge and down the road to the cleanest house on the street. We knocked on the door. Uncle Marty was by the vestibule door with his coat on, he was just going out with Alan. We said, hello and goodbye in a brief exchange and then me and Dad wandered down the back of the house to find Aunty V in the kitchen. We’d passed the dining table on the way through, it was set for elevenses with cakes all laid out. Aunty V jumped when she heard Dad’s voice, expecting it to be Uncle Marty. She threw her arms around him repeating his name, “Billy, Billy, Billy” only stopping when she saw me in the doorway behind, slowly walking past the cakes with bigger eyes than usual. She kissed me on the head, spun me around into a chair, put a lovely china plate in front of me and reached for a doilie to cover the plate. “Which one do you want first?” she asked. This was an informed decision and one that was easy to make, “Can I have the Victoria sponge please Aunty V”. I knew I couldn’t travel far with a slice of that and the others looked like they could be wrapped in a doilie.

Dad and his twin sister went off to the kitchen while she made a fresh pot of tea. I could hear them talking while my finger scooped the cream out of the middle of the cake and popped it in my mouth. Aunty V made me a cup of tea too, which reminded me I needed the loo. I asked politely then made my way upstairs. It was just a loo on its own, with tiled walls, no lock on the door and no room whatsoever to do a handstand. I went down the stairs on my bum and did a roly poly towards the vestibule door, being very careful not to kick it. When I walked back into the kitchen Auntie V was saying to my Dad, “Well the world won’t be the same without you, so do your best Bill”. Her eyes turned towards me as she nodded to my Dad.

Homemade Battenburg and Viennese Whirls were wrapped up in doilies as we made our way onto the next bus at 11:12am from the Vale. Next stop the Pier Head. I know I am going to need another wee by the time I get there.

SaveAways 1983 (Part Two)

The crowd gathered around the Pier Head at 5:23 pm, it was pissing down and we were soaked wet through after having the bright idea to walk along from Toxteth. It wasn’t raining when we left, by the time we got to the gates with the little turret on top of a bigger turret the wind swooped sideways from the Mersey through the Kings Dock. Intense sharp rain right in the face, drenching the clothes through. The ice kream van went past a while ago heading towards the waterfront, playing their tune as they got close to us. They must have noticed the flashes of hi-viz on our attire, or maybe it was because my husband was wearing a giant Panda head, he got a lot of attention that day and it kept him dry from the rain. We gathered and danced and sang together, some played the drums. We were all from the same tribe, all banded together in our madness, grief and celebration of life and death.

The bus pulled in at the Pier Head. I was sat on my hands clenching myself to the seat trying not to focus on the tea splashing around in my belly as we took a wide corner into the bus stop. I fixed a smile on my face so as not to have the focus shifted to my very full bladder and still didn’t blink. Tea goes through you very quickly. While I didn’t want to spoil the day by being demanding, I couldn’t risk wetting my peddle pushers. I looked smart when I left the house this morning, mum had left my blouse and peddle pushes out on the side for me, all ironed and smooth. With white knickers, a vest and some frilly-edged socks. Dad commented, “Sunday best!” when I got dressed, it wasn’t Sunday though, it was Monday so I didn’t have to lie about going to church today.

Dad took me straight into the landing terminal where the ferry embarked from and took me to the turnstile of the toilets, an old lady came to the gate at the same time as us. Dad took 2p out of his pocket and passed it to the old lady we had never met. She knew what to do. She stood me in front of her, put the 2p in the turnstile and then pushed me up close to the bar and we both poured into the public convenience together, two for the price of one. I didn’t feel the need to do any handstands in these toilets, instead, I hovered over the seat and aimed in the general direction of the loo, just like Mum had taught me. “Do not sit on that seat!” she would always remind me. She wasn’t there to remind me today, but I knew it was dirty and I could not tolerate smells. I gagged at the stench and quickly pulled my sleeve down to cover my hand while I unlocked the door to get out of there and buried my chin and mouth in the ruched collar of my blouse. I washed my hands and breathed in the smell of the council soap, it was the same smell as the soap at school, and every other public toilet. I pulled tongues at myself in the mirror as I rubbed my hands together, splashing the suds between both hands. I looked down realising I had covered myself in water from the sink. I tried to rub it dry with the cotton towel. I pulled a clean bit around scrunched up my wet blouse and rubbed it with the towel. It didn’t dry it, now I just had a scrunched and wet blouse. Oh well. I shrugged to myself in the mirror and walked on my tip toes with my arms in the air out of the public convenience.

Dad was waiting for me, he looked like he’d missed me because his smile was beaming at me as I used my belly to push the bar to get out. I was tempted to do a cartwheel then but as I looked down at the floor it was dirty with cigarette butts so I decided against it also knowing that those types of “acrobatics” as Dad would call them, had no place on the street or in the house. Instead, I took giant steps still with my arms in the air until I got closer to Dad. He took my hand and pirouetted me around on the spot. I bowed to him and then walked normally, or as best as I could until I tripped on a flagstone, falling to my knees.

The best thing about pedal pushers, I didn’t rip them as I fell, instead I just had a spot of blood on my knees from the graze. Dad took his checked hanky out of his pocket, still folded in a square and neatly ironed with his initials on the corner, WJF. He gave it a rub and said, “It will be a pig’s foot in the morning!”. We snorted. We started to walk away from the Ferry terminal, at which point I asked, preparing to be disappointed, “Are we going on the Ferry Dad?” “First I want to show you something”, he replied. It was only a short walk along the Pier Head to the War Memorial, we walked slowly. Dad sat us down in front of the large concrete circular monument with a beacon in the middle and put the Kwik Save bag on his lap. He took out the sandwiches wrapped in tin foil. Some were cut into quarters, in a triangle shape and the other sandwich was cut in half, not in a triangle. He passed me one of the small triangles, I bit into it left the crust hanging out of my mouth and smiled at Dad. He took a bite from his buttie and said “Divine”. I knew he was referring to the butter and not the whole buttie. Dad loved butter. I checked once by holding a buttercup under his chin and right enough, it shone golden yellow on his big grizzly round face. He loved butter.

Dad reached across and took the crust from my mouth, knowing I wouldn’t eat it anyway. He checked and there was a bit of chicken still between the crusts which he took out and popped into my mouth. I said, “Amen!” and swallowed. Dad finished my crust and wrapped the foil around the rest of the sandwiches. He took the lid off the Kiaora bottle and held it to my mouth while I took a sip, “that will do”, he said, and safely took the bottle away from me to avert any further mishaps, I presumed. Dad started towards the War Memorial and began telling me a story. He asked how old I was now, “almost eleven, in eleven days” I replied. He began, “Well when I was 7, I had a Dad, he went away to sea to fight the Gerrrrrmans”. “He never came back” he continued. I felt his sadness. “I was just a little boy”, he said looking up at the War Memorial. Dad walked around the outside edge of the Memorial, there were hundreds of names all around, and on the inside too. He found the list of names of the Seamen who lost their lives on HMS Manistee and pointed to a name on the list. It was written “W. Flanagan”. “William John Flanagan the first”, he explained. Dad was the second, my brother the third and I had the cutest little nephew just one-year-old, he was the Fourth. Bless him.

“Did you cry?” I asked. Dad said, “No, I didn’t cry for years”. I thought that strange but didn’t push for any clarification. I went down the list reading all the names out loud, most of them were Irish-sounding names, so they were easy for me to read. Dad walked to the water’s edge and leaned onto the poles looking over the water at Birkenhead. He reached into his pocket took out the small medicine bottle and popped one of the tiny tablets under his tongue. He looked exhausted, had I worn him out already? It seemed I did that these days. We walked slowly back towards the Ferry terminal and showed our SaveAways to the man at the turnstile. He let us through and pressed his little clicker twice.

Dad found us a seat on the deck, the sun was shining on the water and the view of the Pier Head suddenly became enchanting as the boat took off. We were on the Royal Iris, I’d heard a lot about her but this was my first time going over the water.

The Pier Head building was huge and it didn’t seem to get smaller as we moved away from the water edge. I could see the Liver Birds on top from this distance without straining my neck to look up. I imagined them flying away with the other birds and then realised that would be sad if they were gone, so I flew them back. I put my arms out like wings as I stood on the deck, feeling the sway of the water beneath us. The sun shone on Dad’s face as he raised his chin up and smiled, the wind catching his curls on his full head of hair. I sat backwards between his knees and let him cuddle me for a minute. I rubbed my soft cheek on his spikey chin. Dad got a shave every morning but by lunch time would be able to annoy me by rubbing his stubble on my face, making me giggle. It didn’t annoy me today. I rubbed back and forth slowly, bobbing along on the water over the waves and looking back towards our hometown. The sound of heavy chains and a sudden bump brought me to my feet as I realised we were on the other side. We got off the Ferry hand in hand both of us looking out for things that I could potentially trip over. I smelt the most glorious of smells, one that will always remind me of my dad, engine oil. I breathed in the air and remembered the days when Dad would come home late for tea with bags of sweets and his overalls still on. I would try to intercept him at the door so I could get a cuddle while he still had the smell of engine oil on him. I loved that smell. It was warm and cosy.

SaveAways 1983 (Part Three)

Gimpo as ever, was the one that had to keep an eye on everything while the other two busied about in the Ice Kream van. After beating the bounds and congregating he sent us all towards the Ferry while he made off back to the van. It wasn’t the best evening for a Krossing, it was ruff as fuuk. The Skool of Death had equipped us with all the skills and kin needed for the rest of the journey. With each step I took the boat would either rise to meet my foot, or swoop away causing me to wobble and go off-kilter. No stranger to this environment, I pursued. I stood close to the Panda and kept one eye on my precious niece. By now she had submerged herself into the beauty and was wearing a retractable traffic cone on her head, tilted to the side like a fine hat and fastened underneath the chin. Like me, she was no stranger to mishaps. She had the biggest of smiles as she took in the magic and the loving, living souls all around her. I could still feel her pain though. We all fell into silence as the roll call of names ensued and the lights from the Liver Buildings shone brightly across the water. We gasped and gulped as my brother’s name was read out amongst those to be Mumufied this year. Raymond Flanagan. A reminder that he was gone.

I’ve often gathered my family together in the autumn months and insisted we took the Ferry ‘cross the Mersey if I came home for a visit. Mostly at least one or two were obliging most years. I didn’t go back to Liverpool much since I left in 1994 when I was 21, I tried to keep it to once a year. If someone died, was born, married or had a significant birthday then I may be persuaded to return more than once in the year. I like a family party, even if it is a wake, it is nice to see everyone together. One year, on a bright and balmy October afternoon, I managed to get at least 10 of us together, and we took the Ferry to the other side, and back. We never got off the Ferry, straight back to Liverpool and then off out for tea, that was the tradition. This time our Ray even made it, he never had before and he never made it again. This year he was on his best behaviour and made it to the Ferry terminal to meet us all there. He wasn’t even gouging out or rattling too badly. We posed for photos, all four siblings together and even some of our kids. My mum loved it and thanked me for arranging everything. Just as we were about to pull back up at the waterside, before the sound of the chains, and the smell of the oil, Raymond disappeared into the toilet. We all got off the Ferry and looked around for him, eventually, he came skipping down the gangplank, he was fuuking muntered. He had been to the bog and indulged in a huge hit of heroin. He was smiling and laughing. My Mum announced his full name while rolling her eyes. Most of the family muttered in unison, “Oh for fuuks sake”. I took him by the hand and led him along with me, asking him how he’d been and was he buzzing? “Yeah?” I was long past being angry with him for being an addict. I saw it as a permanent, terminal illness that deserved empathy, understanding, the odd chin wipe and a constant stream of £20 handouts. As I said, I didn’t see them often so it was never too onerous to endure. I loved my brother dearly, we were best friends all our lives.

Dad was still holding my hand as we walked off the Ferry, I felt him walking slower than me, so I tried to slow down. It had been like this for a while now but I didn’t ask too much about it, I just used to go slower or sometimes I would take a step forward and then back, a bit like Scottish dancing where you take two steps in the same place before you move along, but slower and still holding his hand. I noticed how Dad’s hands had become smoother than they used to be, even the traces of oil were gone from his nails. He hadn’t fixed a gearbox in ages. I missed having a Scania parked at the end of the path, I was always proud to show off Dad’s lorries to my mates when he brought one home and would use my acrobatic skills to get up to the cab, informing my friends that they were not allowed up here. I’d smile at myself in the large wing mirror and enjoy the smell of the cab.

We walked along the waterfront, looking across to the other side, Dad informed me correctly that it was the best view in the world from over here and the poor sods from Birkenhead didn’t have it all that bad, at least they get to look at Liverpool. The view from the other side of the water was pretty grim, we called Birkenhead the Badlands. It was really fuuking grim in the 80s, everything was. Dad had to sit down, I could see it was upsetting him so I declared it was time for another sandwich and some of Auntie V’s homemade delights. He agreed and I was even allowed to hold the Kiaora bottle this time. We sat looking over the water, thinking to ourselves munching away on Viennese Whirls and Battenburg. Dad finished off the butties too. Divine.

Summer came and went. Dad took me to see my other aunties, one by one. We had a lot of days out me and Dad that summer. I had to start the big school, it was a convent school. I was dreading it. I had heard about the Nuns from my sister, she was 12 years older than me and had been taught by the same nuns and so had my brothers. The Sisters of Mercy. I had been informed they were merciless. A few weeks into term, Dad got a date for his operation that was going to make him better. I was assured by everyone that he would soon be right as rain. I love rain.

At last, I heard the chains clunk, we were waiting by the exit keen to get off. A girl ran past and shouted “Fuuk that boat!” as we disembarked, it was a rough crossing. As instructed we walked slowly and in an exaggerated manner along the landing pier and out towards the Badlands. The choir from Toxteth was on the other side singing aloud informing us to “throw those curtains wide.”

Me and my niece locked into a hug and wiped each other’s tears, “that fuuking boat though!” we laughed. The ice kream van chimed the tune of Justified and Ancient, and a police van tore towards the terminal with its siren and lights, it wasn’t for us. We were all surprised. Flares were going off, smoke and colours. We collected our brick, he was heavy, not going to lie. The pyramid led the way, on a forklift truck of course. I followed the crowd and I found myself walking along a strip of the waterfront I hadn’t walked down since 1983, when I was with my Dad. I thought of everything in a flash that had been and gone over the 40 years since I was last here. What had life taught me? I seemed to realise all at once, or maybe it was the rush from the MDMA giving me insight and knowledge. Not sure, but for that moment, I knew. The tears streamed down my face. The Panda saw them and wiped them away and nodded his head. That Panda took care of me. My niece squeezed my hand. “That’s that one dealt with then Aunty C, well done” she told me. I blinked. The tears fell. I was exhausted. I walked slowly, following the pyramid, carrying our brick. I was really exhausted. It was heavy.

Dad died just before 8 pm on Tuesday 25th October 1983. Karma Chameleon was number one in the UK Charts and Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers were number one in the US Charts with Islands in the Stream. I sat in my bedroom with my pull-out poster of Boy George. I didn’t cry.

Little Grapefruit’s Welsh Cousin Part 1
Little is known about Little Grapefruit’s Welsh cousin, Angharad. But those who have heard of her will know that she recently embarked on a journey to join up with her cousin, Little Grapefruit, somewhere in the Baltic Region. For Grapefruit can still travel freely throughout every territory in the world. Grapefruit are seen as universally neutral and at peace with every nation.

Little Grapefruit (LG) is the older cousin of Angharad, but LG is much plumper and noticeably pinker than her Welsh relative. Unfairly, Angharad often feels overlooked in comparison. Angharad has been known to have a unique tinge of green, which can make her look quite poorly.

Artwork by GANTOB.blog

Angharad recently spent the week in Liverpool, rolling around the Florrie and taking in the triptych visuals of the KLFRs. Angharad identifies as an Anarkist Grapefruit and insists that the KLFRS have got some things wrong. She accepts their heirarky, but is fearless when changing the big “S” to a little “s”. She doesn’t mind upsetting others when it is for a good cause.

Angharad became somewhat emotional after the Krossing in Liverpool and decided it was time for reflection. She plopped herself into the Mersey and bobbed off to find a place to just be, bobbing along for days until she finally reached St Petersburg. She knew she would have at least one night here before she had to meet up with the plumper, rounder, pinker relative.

Angharad had been to St Petersburg before with her adoptive parents. She recalls the time when they went to the top of St Isaac’s Cathedral to see the bells. As excited bellringers, her parents had forgotten they suffered from vertigo. They quickly turned a green hue. It could be where Angharad gets it from. I don’t think it’s biological or inherited from her other Grapefruit ancestors.

Angharad took in the sights of the city and felt the glow from her long swim from the river to the sea. She would catch up with Little Grapefruit eventually, but for now, Angharad wanted to bask in her own being. She remembered one of Mum and Dad’s favourite pubs and rolled along the street where War and Peace was written, saluting to the memory of Tolstoy as she went. She found the little cosy bar that she remembered from her previous visit and rolled herself inside, removing the jumper and hat she had bought on arrival.

Little Grapefruit’s Welsh Cousin Part 2

Angharad found herself in the little bar, sharing in conversations on Anarky. She wondered why we aren’t all anarkists, and settled on the idea that was related to empathy (see Table 2.3).

Angharad asked the name of the fellow anarkist she was talking to. Tat’jana reached out her hand and introduced herself. Angharad wondered if this was the friend her mother Kristina had been desperately seeking since they were separated at a rave back in the 90s. She realised there had been false rumours about Kristina and Tat’jana being bandied about, especially the one about the submarine. She knew that was just nonsense that the KLF had made up.

Angharad and Tat’jana spoke for some time before Angharad braved the conversation. She was looking for reference points that would tie her with memories from her mother’s stories. She knew her mum had the old sound system in her barn, the size of a small aircraft hangar, in Wales. She also had the big Triptych projektion skreen, the old trusty Edirol mixer and a stack of old DVD players.

Angharad was aware that she could not hang around for too long, she still had plans to meet up with Little Grapefruit one day soon. Angharad skratched her grapefruit brow, thinking hard of a way she could summarise what this Tat’jana had told her so far, could she use the K-Konjekture formula? Angharad was not sure if it was the akcent that made it sound like Tat’jana was using K’s to replace the C’s. She did realise in these Baltic regions — and indeed for most of Eastern Europe and further afield — they preferred a good kicking K to a C.

Turning to Tat’jana to pose the question, Angharad spotted the little ice-kream tattoo on Tat’jana’s wrist. It was the same as the one her mother has. They got them on a day trip to New Brighton after hanging out on the film set for Letter to Brezhnev. The JAMs later stole the Ice-Kream and K idea.

It was her!
Angharad gasped!
Tat’jana offered another drink of vodka and a slice of lard, but Angharad refused.

Angharad wondered for a moment what her mother Kristina would think about being reunited with Tat’jana. She knew she had been desperately seeking her, but did she want to get the band back together? It was after all 2023 and possibly too late for the Christmas number 1 entry.

Dad died just before 8 pm on Tuesday 25th October 1983. Karma Chameleon was number one in the UK Charts and Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers were number one in the US Charts with Islands in the Stream. I sat in my bedroom with my pull-out poster of Boy George. I didn’t cry.

Little Grapefruit’s Welsh Cousin Part 3

Angharad travelled home briefly for Christmas to see her Mum and Dad. She really didn’t like not being with them for Christmas, she loved all the fuss and lack of decorations. Mum and Dad hated Christmas tat, they never had any sign of decorations when Angharad rolled in the door on Christmas Eve.

Angharad had her usual tinge of green about her, and a noticeable dent. Mum picked her up as she rolled through the door and squealed with delight at the sight. She immediately grabbed a flannel and gave Angharad’s less plump face a good wipe before continuing to kiss her on her little grapefruit forehead.

Mum started telling of all things that had gone on since they last saw each other in Liverpool. About the videos, and music, the new friends gained in 2023 and plans for 2024 and how she had bravely started writing. Angharad was shocked at the last bit, she knew mum hated writing. She remembers the groans out of Mum all those years she was studying. Mum is dyslexic and for most of her life has been scared of words. Angharad recalls the overheard tears that would come from Mum’s room where her desk was back then, hidden in the corner of her bedroom with post-its and mind maps on the wall above. Mum would often insist she could not write anything right up to the day of the deadline and then would cry until midnight until she had to submit her work to The Open University. Angharad knew for sure her mum could write, she just knew she struggled with confidence. One time Mum received 91% for an essay on riots. Mum has always been concerned if people kept being treated so badly by the state, then there would be riots, many more riots.

Most people think that Anarkists want riots and violence, but this is not the case. Most Anarkists want peace and autonomy, not to be told to do things. They want to live in freedom and grow their own vegetables. Anarkist gardeners don’t even like to till the land, like most things they just want to let it be and add nourishment to it from time to time.

After a while Mum noticed that Angharad hadn’t shared many stories on her adventures and asked where she had been, who she had seen and where did she get that dent from?

Miss Iformation

This story was encouraged out of me by GANTOB. GANTOB has encouraged my creativity and writing this year. Thanks, GANTOB.

Toxteth Day of the Dead

Get Mumufication

Toxteth Day of the Dead is an annual event which may or may not be held in Toxteth. Toxteth Day of the Dead is the time of year when you can lay your loved ones bricks to rest on the People’s Pyramid.
Currently, the People’s Pyramid does not have a home but is housed in a storage unit awaiting its final resting place.
I have a brick, but I am not dead yet, I will be attending the event known as The Krossing this year.
On the 23rd November 2023, all interested parties should gather at the iconic building in Liverpool 8, The Florrie. Events start at 10am and will continue into the small hours.
Further information can be found on the Mumufication website.

To Write

Months ago I wrote something here. I planned to write every single day. It hasn’t gone well, I wrote nothing for months. Instead, I have been consumed in passing thoughts. That’s what happens to your thoughts if you don’t write them down, they just drift away. No record, often no recollection either, just gone.



Community is important to me. It is here where we are protected, encouraged, and strive to become connected to our fellow human beings.
It is here where we can be ourselves, and find solace in what we do, what we create, and who we are. Where those who we surround ourselves with, matter, those whom we encourage and nurture to do their best. Community creates a space where we can stand together, be supported, and hold resistance. Community brings us closer to ourselves.