by Bernie Bostik
“I was on the dole, no fixed abode, I was sick of sleeping rough. I’d spent me rent on a two man tent but I’d just about had enough” wrote some streetwise intellectual.
Those eloquent words of prose were a mirror reflection of where my life was going around the Winter of 95. I just managed to secure myself a small bedsit off Lower Breck Rd thanks to some housing association, just before Jack Frost led his merry dance all over December.
The flat was just behind the Liverpool Supporters Club just across the road from Georgesons car gaff on Suburban Road. One of them old three storey Victorian drums, mine was the middle flat. Below me was a zimmer frame assisted old lady who was about 80, who got frequent visits off the family to check on her well being. And the top one was empty. The flat was painted in a hideous fluorescent suicidal yellow colour. Front room had a sofa bed, fire and TV. Kitchen had cooker, fridge and sink. Bathroom had bath and sink. You know all the necessities, but with no-frills , a bit like the scran in the fridge. I had a rusty fire escape leading down to a small dull yard, which housed the bins. The depressing yard had a wall with the inevitable broken glass cemented on top.With a locked gate leading the way to a dog shit smothered playing field behind. I have never seen so many dogs in my life as when I lived in that flat. One night I remember getting on the wrong side of the local gang of mongrels that hung in a pack outside the chippy, when i came out with my fish cake & chips they chased me all the way to my front door.
If it wasn’t canines it was the gangs upon gangs of kids that hung around the backs of the houses drinking, shrieking and generally getting up to no good that done my head in. You see I was going through a bit of a rough time of la Vida loca lately. Bernie was Bernie Flint, no job, no prospects. The only thing I had to my name was the cloths on my back. I wont bore you with the details of how I ended up in this situation, but I was at a low ebb.
The only highlight in my high rise low life was my biweekly visits to me mates Longy in Noggsie. When we would go a see old Eddy on the Boot Hill Estate to stock up on supplies for the next week or so. There was always a full house at Eds and if young Eddy was home, from working in Germany, you were guaranteed an aching belly from laughter. As he spun his yarns of Bierkellers, Brass and Bratwurst through the plumes of smoke.
I went to see Longy one afternoon were I found him in his usual spec. Up in his room reading the Echo or the programme from last weeks game. Now walking into Longy’s room was like walking into the Liverpool equivalent of the Hardrock Cafe. On the beanbag you had ‘Pink’ – the four foot stuffed dummy that appeared in the Wall ( and appeared for a while at some Wall memorabilia show in Berlin until a few wags walked out arm in arm with it ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ style, complete with shades on, when Roger was rocking the Potsdamer Platz in 90). A turning of the worms full face mask also from the film on top of the portable and Gabriels shoe taken off him at the Empire back in 83 in the wardrobe.
Longy took a call from their kid Fran who ran a boozer down in London and put me on. Long story short some Swedish barmaid he had working for him wanted to come to Liverpool to see the sights and was looking for a bed for the weekend. He also informed me she would have a months wages on her (£600) and when she was drunk she fucked like a rabbit (what he failed to tell me was that when pissed she turned into a head-banging Swedish fruitcake…..but more of that later). Was she 6ft , blonde and good at massages I wanted to know? He told me she was “dark short and not bad”. Now, “not bad” in Frans book is borderline in anybody else’s, believe me I’ve seen the proof! Anyway what the fuck, in for a öre in for a Krona.
I met her at Lime St, My briefing was “she will be wearing a leather jacket”. Little did I know it would be a full on Greaser type leather thing, and as I viewed the rest of her get-up I was horrified. Tatty denims pulled right up with a big biker belt. I couldn’t look no further I just knew what was coming next…..that’s right a hefty pair of Ox blood coloured dockers……..AARRRGGGHHHH!!! I DETEST WOMEN IN DOCKERS. When she got closer I must say her kipper was as Fran said “not bad” and the rest of her form was okay. With the footwear forgotten for a moment, she informed me in her mad drunken English accent that she had been drinking Stella on the train and she had 8 cans of Stella in her Rucksack….AAAARRGGGHHHH! A giant Rucksack of Chris Bonnington proportions on her back to go with the hideous shoes.I thought I was getting some Bjorg Scandinavian little minx and I end up with Suzy Quattrosson.
I tell her my flat is a short bus journey away (secretly hoping she suggests hopping a cab, knowing full well she’s got a pocket full of cash and I’ve only got a fiver). She keeps her trap shut and we jump on the 17C for the journey from hell. Once on the top deck – her sitting next to the ruccy me behind pretending not to know her – she proceeds to delve into the bag and pulls out a can and sparks it and starts swigging from it, like a man whose been in the desert for days. She tries to engage in conversations with the whole of the top deck, telling them she loves rock music especially Bon Jovi. She even stands up to show a couple of school girls her Axle Rose T-shirt and starts talking to an arl drunk about how much the Beatles changed the face of rock music for ever. When we turned right onto Breck Rd (passed the estate on the right that has probably been knocked down by now,) I could see her mood change as she viewed the surroundings outside. Then she blurted out for the whole of the top deck to hear “OH MY GOD LOOK AT THOSE APARTMENTS, DO PEOPLE LIVE IN THEM?….THEY MUST DO, LOOK THERES LIGHTS ON IN SOME OF THEM” I wish some cunt could hurry up and invent some stupid button that you press that makes you magically disappear cos I could have done with one then. I spent the rest of the ride with my head down until it was time to jump off at the Cabbage Hall. I was well off the bus and already making my way down the pavement while……(.fuck me it’s just come to me that I don’t even remember the girls name…..that’s bad)…..what’s her name was still struggling on the stairs of the bus.
We get to the flat and settle in by getting stuck in to the Stella and after a while I move in for a fumble on the sofabed . All is going well till I get down to the knicker stage and she stops me and tells me she is on. Now speaking from past experience (not my own I may add) i was a tad sceptical. So a good grope down below was had during the next neck and I was exctatic to say all I could feel was the thin crash mat in the gusset to catch the congealed blood. So the night was spent me lay back on the sofa bed watching either The Word or T.F.I Friday (cannot remember which), can in one hand, spliff in the other while Suzi chewed the bone.
Suzi had a quick blow on the flesh flute as the birds twittered there early morning tunes to eachother. We eventually stumbled out of bed around 11ish. Over tea & toast I explained I was between jobs and brassic. That didn’t matter as she promised a day out on the ale, but first she wanted to see a few of the well know Liverpool land marks. After a quick magical mystery bus tour of “There’s Liverpool’s ground” “There’s the Liver Buildings” “This is the Albert Dock and this is the World famous Pump House Boozer” we were back on the ale. Suzi could bevy like an Irish navvy; pint followed by pint, followed by pint, followed by pint, there was no quenching Quatro’s thirst. I got a tad concerned when she started ordering whiskey chasers, which once downed she performed the most embarrassing piece of air guitar I have ever seen.
Late afternoon we found ourselves in the Cabbage Hall legless. She’d gone through all that bravado bit of being drunk, you know loud and obnoxious. And was now at the fall asleep at the bar stage. I was also sat at the bar making love to a tonic and gin. It took me an hour of physically lifting her to get to my front door, were we both collapsed in a heap on the step. We finally managed to make it up the steps to my flat, were we both ended up on the sofa bed. After a few hours kip we became semi awake and It wasn’t long before we found ourselves naked. She sucked me to a tremendous stiffy and I was aching to penetrate her. She was transfixed with my tool and I could tell she wanted the rock hard cock inside her. She looked up at me an said “you can if you want, but it might be a bit messy”. I pulled her up kissed her and inserted the middle digit into her quite hairy bush. A few seconds later I pulled the finger out and placed my arm around the waist and brought the hand up head height, and sneakily start kissing the neck and ear ready for the old ‘lift your hand up behind her back to have a sly sniff/lick ( and on this occasion check for blood ) routine’.
There seemed to be no physical evidence of claret so I quickly set too on the fornicating front. I must say she was a good ride, we did it every which way but loose. And boy did she howl, this base line throaty grunt every few seconds followed by a few Swedish expletives (it was like being in bed with Björn Borg). I hope old Mrs C down stairs had turned her hearing aid off for the night because when Suzi orgasmed she did this high pitched squeal that sounded like she was being strangled. I managed to throw a silencer on it a few times with the aid of a pair of undies – a trick I’d picked up after seeing (as a kid) the delectable scouse kitten, Kim Cattral AKA ‘Lassie’ get some sweaty jock-strap stuffed in her mouth, to stop her screaming the gym down when getting porked in Porky’s.pork19.jpg ¨
With it being dark (saving on leccy) and the frantic love making I had neglected the period situation. I knew it felt extra squishy in the jam butty mine when pumping away, but it was only now that i had cum and was a sweating, heavy breathing lump on the bed did I notice all the blood around my midriff and on closer inspection of the bed, found there was blood caked all over the sheets. When Suzi came to her senses, she got all embarrassed and pulled the sheets up to cover her tomato sauce drenched bacon sarnie. I jumped up and put on the big light, so I could inspect the damage.
When I turned round I was mortified at the sight. I remember seeing MTV cribs one time when some BMX/Skateborder dude was showing you around his dream home in the Hollywood hills. He had this spare bedroom he had decorated to scare friends who stayed over after wild parties. It had a big iron and chain four poster bed in the middle of this all virginal white room, the only colour was the bright red blood like Jackson Pollock splashes all over the floor, walls, bed and bedspread -also there were words written on the walls in bloody handprints (Help, Kill etc) for that added effect. Giving the illusion that something very horrible had happened in the room. I remember thinking at the time if I ever won the pools I’m getting one of them for the mansion in Alderely Edge. Well I didn’t have to wait till I won the pools, I had created my very own Hammer House of Horror with out the aid of some poncy long haired interior designer in a ruffle shirt.
The blood had splattered up the wall at the side of the bed. The sheets and pillows were fucked and I was sure that by the amount of blood letting on show, it was nailed on that it had seeped through the bed spread and stained the material of the sofa. Suzi jumped up with an ashamed look on her face and with tears in her eyes bounced off to the bathroom. Leaving bloody footprints on the beige carpets behind her. I tidy myself up in the sink with the dish cloth and dried myself on a tea towel. I tackled the frontroom the best I could by throwing an old sleeping bag over the maroon damp batch on the blue material of the bed and using a duster to swab the splattered wall. I heard the bath running in-between bouts of sleep and Suzi returned about an hour later smelling of jojoba and sure.
She wasn’t very talkative and we both fell asleep shivering under a couple of beach towels infront of the 2bar fire. The next morning over tea & toast she was still somewhat sheepish as she informs me she has to get back to London (which is a lie because I know from Fran she had 5 days off). I wanted to fuck her off anyway and now she had saved me the job. I couldn’t just leave her to fend for her self so I jumped a cab with her down to Limey and waited with her in the Yankee for a couple of hours till her train was due to leave. The last thing I said to her was if we get to the cup final and your still working at Frans then yer better be ready girl cos ‘ I’m a devil on the run, a six gun lover, a candle in the wind’ and I’m comin’ for yer. Little did I know what was to happen.
I got back to the flat and begun the big clear up. It was during this clean up that I drifted off into a scary hallucination of what it must be like for a murderer to dispose of evidence after a kill. As I properly cleaned the blood off the walls and scrubbed the couch and carpets (front room & bathroom) with bleach. And got every bloodstained item (sheets, pillow cases, 2 towels, tea towel, dish cloth and duster) put them in two binbags and because the bin in the yard was full I thought placing them outside the gates ready for collection in a few days was a good idea. I know, I know, if I was a proper murderer the bin bags would have got the same treatment as the body. Put in the boot of a car for the journey to Delamere to be doused in petrol burnt beyond all recognition and then the remains buried in the under growth. Satisfied with my work I settled down to an extra snotty egg butty with lashings of tommy sauce and the Antiques Roadshow.
Monday, and all thoughts of Suzi were lodged in the back of the grey matter as I emerged myself back in to my no-job life style. This Morning, then go and get the Echo. Get back have a cup of tea and a spliff whilst reading the Echo. Then a lazy afternoon watching through the window the kids on the park playing footy, no jumpers for goalposts (to cold), only binbags today. But today the wild pack of mongrels are disrupting the game which is annoying the young budding Robbie Fowlers. They seem to be attracted to one of the bin bags. They all surround it sniffing away. Then all of a sudden they were off, ravershing the binbag. throwing it around like a rag doll before finally ripping it to shreds. The contents and rubbish were strewn all over the show, a big white sheet with red stains, now hold on , A BIG WHITE SHEET WITH RED STAINS….MY BIG WHITE SHEET WITH RED STAINS!!!!!!! along with the pillow cases with red stains, the towels with red stains, the tea towel and duster all of them spread out on the field in all their glory for everybody to see.
The game had come to a halt, most of the dogs had been chased off, except for a few stragglers who continued to sniff and lick the sheets. Everyone was stood round inspecting the contents of the rubbish bag. I was peeping from a gap in the curtains and after a few minutes the talking turned into pointing as a few of them started signalling towards me. (obviously pointing out where the bags had come from).Next minute a few of the nosey neighbours appeared and there must’ve been a good 20 people stood in the centre circle looking at the exhibits on display and generally pointing in my direction. I hit the ground and started sweating profusely. What if they think something un toward has happened and phone the plod and the plod come knocking…….What if nothing you daft cunt!!, get off the floor and stop thinking your Theodore Robert Bundy for fucksake.
Mrs C must have had the earring aid on because her and her family treated me with contempt from that day on as did most of the neighbours. I stayed in the flat till the summer, just till I received my crisis loan (what was it the women in Breckfield dole office said “you know this is the toughest area in the UK to recieve a crisis loan” – what did she know Ha!) I got £460 quid off the fuckers just in time for the Cup Final in May. I had plenty of cabbage for the ale, I was on a promise with Suzi, I had a ticket for the Final, what could go wrong?
I got stinking drunk, goosed Suzi good and proper and we wont mention the match. We got back to Fran’s after the match and hit the Caffery’s with brandy chasers to numb the pain, the mood was sombre to say the least. After a few hours gargling and a few away day favourite belting out the juke box (American Pie – Don Maclean, Follow You Follow Me Genesis – Hi Ho Silvelining Jeff Beck – Ring of Fire Johnny Cash, which was always an away day favourite) it turned into one of the best nights of my life.
After the Karaoke session to the tunes on the Jukey, it was only a matter of time before Fran got on the old Guitar. He belted out his usual medley of Beatles/Simon & Garfunkel/Dylan as everyone sang along. It was magical nights like this, that made away days down in Frans so special, and we weren’t going to let the result -how ever soul destroying- ruin our party. The party finished with the usual ritual as Fran got the bottle of Woods Navy Rum down off the top shelf, for the end of night toast to absent friends. With the measures of rum that Fran was giving out, this signalled the end of the road for most people. Those who had beds and could walk got off, the rest just crashed where they fell. Me and Suzi found ourselves a quiet corner. We were found the next morning by the cleaner. Me with my kecks round my ankles in a half standing, half crouching position with my head resting on the wall and wedged inbetween the two fruit machines. With Suzy on her back next to me dressed only in a pair of dockers and a cowboy hat, with her hairy moggy on show.