I fucking love Scouse birds

Coming back from town today, I gave my friend Rebecca a shout to see if she fancied a walk. She lives up on Everton Brow. Becca had done her back in, but I linked her and we got up the hill together, then we found a little place to sit in the shade and watch the trees. There was some weird fella stood against a post nearby with an out of town accent, AKA a wool, he was drunk, a little leery, and talking on his phone. I said to Becca there was probably nobody on the other end of the line.

We were watching the leaves dance in the light, talking about life and stuff, when the wool lashed an empty bottle of beer he’d been drinking onto the floor. Luckily, it bounced where the grass verge meets the pavement so it didn’t smash like he intended.

There was a young girl walking a little pug up the hill at the same time who witnessed this too, and she was closer than us. She immediately started telling the wool, in no uncertain terms, to pick the glass bottle up that he’d thrown on the floor. He was refusing to comply, and she was rather vexed, AKA feeewming.

“You’re not even from round here ya fucking meff, this is where I live and there’s kids and dogs that walk here. Put ya fucking bottle in the bin, I’ve just watched you lash that,” she demanded. “Ooower,” I thought, and began to watch the exchange. At one point he said, “Leave me alone, I’m autistic,” at which point, feeling autistic people were being dragged into disrepute, I interjected and told him my son was autistic and he doesn’t drop litter. I gave my opinion that rather than him being autistic, a better diagnosis was that he was a fucking arsehole, and that he should pick the bottle up because the young lady was correct.

The guy was pretty determined not to bow to the social pressure to act correctly, so the young lady said, “Well I’m standing here until you pick it up then, I’ve got all day lad.” She stood there feeewming and, as people passed, they asked if she was ok. She explained the situation and a number of Scousers passing by fervently told the lad to pick the bottle up, as they could see the young lady, whose name was Sydney, was distressed.

But he refused and was pretty rude. Sydney was about eighteen. She was indomitable, unyielding and militant. I watched on, keeping an eye on her in case he turned nasty or violent so I could step in, but knowing she had this covered. Sydney was dealing with this in a feminine way, a way I could not, a way I am too clumsy and masculine for. I only have uppercuts to use in these situations, but Sydney had feminine wiles and the heart of a fucking Liver bird.

Sydney is, in many ways, more powerful and adept than me in the social milieu. Sydney was magnificent. The guy, crumbling in his resolve, began to walk away but left his bottle on the ground. Sydney kicked it along the grass after him shouting, “Pick this up knobhead.” When he didn’t, she walked over to him, took his full bottle of beer off him and swilled him with it like a racing car driver spraying champagne after winning a race. Then she stormed up the hill still feeewming.  I’ve always loved how Liverpool polices itself.  We live in a city with more poets than policemen and with women fiercer and more courageous than any lioness.

And that is why I fucking love Scouse Birds!   Don’t ever change girls, we love yaz X