Swine Before Pearls

Odd where you get your fun from, innit? As an ex Brookside writer, I agreed to do a brains trust type gig at a literary beanfeast in Malpas, in the depths of Cheshire, with three of the other stalwarts – Jimmy McGovern, Andrew Lynch, and John Oakden, one of the festival organisers, who lives in the area.
None of us knew what to expect, but anything’s better than boredom, and we were promised a good lunch at a local pub. Then we faced about fifty people who did not look, to be frank, like what you’d imagine Brookie fans to be.
Respectable, well-heeled, polite. Unlikely to bury a redundant loved-one under the patio in Brookside Close. (Although you never know, do you?)
John decided the best way forward was to just sit on the platform (without even a glass of gin to hand) and talk about the show and how we’d got on to it, and how it had fitted in with our life as writers. Then we’d offer ourselves up to be questioned, or even filleted.
I was a bit dubious to start with, especially about my role in it. I came to the series later than the others – who were, in fact, all ‘founder members’ – and I was a Southerner who still can’t even do an approximation of a Scouse accent. I didn’t think I’d get scragged in respectable Cheshire/ Shropshire, but the possibility was there…
And anyway, talking about a show that ended several years ago…well, would anybody still be interested?
They were, and so were we. John gave a general introduction, then the anecdotes began to flow. I admitted my outsider status – when I joined I was basically a novelist – and how it felt to be enveloped in the warmth and generosity of that weird and wonderful entity that is ‘The Pool.’
I also remembered a great number of things about the set-up, and the personalities of some of the writers, actors, and directors. And how bizarre it felt on the Friday after
the monthly script meeting to sit in my local and wait for the phone call that would tell me if I’d got an episode or not.
There were twelve of us writers, and eight episodes per month. Even as a grammar school boy I could do that bit of maths. Plus, each time I got an episode I had to buy all my mates a round!
We spoke for about an hour, much to our amazement, and the audience would have stayed for more, I guess. They certainly had not run out of questions when a halt was called. But the festival must go on, as they say. And the boozer was calling.
There was a woman there, whose name, shamefully I did not catch, who sketched us as we talked, then showed us the results. I was easily the most handsome, but then I used to be a journalist as well and therefore should never be believed.
Naturally enough, in this era of instant communication, somebody else knew her name, and sent it to me, with one of the sketches. This happened, madly, because I have a Facebook friend called (this is TRUE) Jan Needle, who buzzed it on to me. Jan Needle is a woman, without a beard, and we have never met. I thank her for her generosity!
So I can now reveal the artist is called Julia Midgley, and if I can I’ll sent on the message and the pic. I’m a scribbler though, not a techie wizard, so gawd knows what’ll happen. If owt.
But after the festivities it was back to Liverpool for Jimmy, and St Helens for me and Andy (who had a bed for me), and down the road to his own lovely house for John. Andy and I ended up outside a night-club in St Helens (yes, you heard me right!) where we were to meet Johnny Vegas and his wonderful PA Bev Dixon for a special do.
Sadly, Lynch had got the date wrong by a month (I won’t say typical but he is St Helens born and bred) so we hung around in the cold until we did the sensible thing.

A good night’s sleep and then back home in time for Gentleman Jack with the amazing Suranne Jones. As the French might say, quell weekend!

Well I tried me best, but failed. Clcik on this link and you might see the pic though. Fingers crossed.

PS Apologies to people who’ve left comments and feel I’m ignoring them. I’m only feeling my way…  Hopefully, I’ll get there later….

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