Yesterday’s blog has had Liverpool echoes, including a splendid story from Alan Hamilton – to which we shall return – and a note from Alan Harrison, the AFC Liverpool PA man.
Firstly, however, a question of etymology: why “Scousers” in the first place?
The generally accepted theory is that it’s from lobscouse, a Scandinavian term for a cheap stew much eaten by poorer Merseyside seamen and their families in the 19th century.
The learned suppose that the word gained much greater currency after the television series Till Death Do Us Part (1965-75) in which Alf Garnett (played by Warren Mitchell) regularly referred to his son-in-law, played by Tomy Booth, Cherie Blair’s old feller, as a “Scouse git.”
That’s them above, in what must be supposed a rare non-confrontational moment.
The PA man, it may be recalled, had become a little uncertain when Schorah scored for AFC Liverpool against Redcar Town. Was it Callum Schorah or his brother Kyle? “Would Schorah the scorer please raise his hand” he announced (which the goal Schorah did.)
Alan’s Twitter profile describes himself as a survivor both of Hillsborough and of cancer, a man who makes the most of every day. “I quite often have to wait a while to identify Schorah the scorer” he writes. “Asking saves time.”
Bishop Auckland fan Andy Lister also has fond memories of a trip to Merseyside – Skelmersdale, anyway – “The welcome was wonderful – ‘You lads have had a long journey, help yourselves to pie and peas’. Amazing folks.”
Anyway, Alan Hamilton. Remembered for a decade or more as secretary (and much else) of Darlington RA, Alan lived in 1989 in Sheffield and was chairman of Chatsworth Round Table. In that guise – suited, booted and resplendent in his chain of office – he’d stopped for petrol en route to a dinner when approached by a scruffy young man with a large yellow Walkman on his shoulder.
“Are you de mayor?” he asked, in a strong Scouse accent. It was a Friday evening – the Friday before Hillsborough.
Undeterred by Alan’s assurance that he held no civic office, the pally scally asked if he’d like to buy a radio.
“I assumed that he was referring to the yellow monstrosity perched on his shoulder. I thanked him for his interest but told him that, at that time, I wasn’t in the market for high fidelity equipment.”
The Scouse was undeterred. “Aw go on mister, you can have it for a tenner.”
The gentleman went on to explain that he and three colleagues in a battered vehicle were Liverpool supporters returning from a match down south and had run out of both petrol and money.
“The story was wholly implausible. The match they spoke of was on Wednesday – it was now Friday, we were in a sleepy suburb of Sheffield not really on the way to anywhere and, absence of satnav notwithstanding, not really on any route from London to Liverpool that I could think of.
“Here were four scallies, if not exacty demanding money with menaces, seeking to relieve me of cash so they could purportedly make their way home.”
Alan sought assurances. If he gave them both a tenner and his name and address – and not having much use for large yellow hifi – would they reimburse him upon returning to Merseyside. They assured him it would be the case.
“I’ve no idea why I gave in to his entreaties, but I handed over a tenner. We all went our respective ways and, with a shrug of my shoulders, I put it down to my good deed for the day while trying to repress any notion that I’d been had. I never expected to see my tenner again.”
A couple of days later, he received a letter containing a short note thanking him for his help and a cheque for £10. Alan returned the cheque, suggesting that they might give it to the Hillsborough disaster fund.
“I’ve had a quiet regard for Scousers ever since” he says – and so, of course, have I.
Grass Routes 