Local author Matt Jacobson reflects on a journey home after a night out.
“Home, if I ever get there, do you really think I will?“
“I’m not a gobshite – I’m yer Nan!” A front door verbal slanging match was played out to the public as I made my way home after an overnight stay. It was a screaming debate and a slight shock for a weary, groggy, gin stinking traveller heading home on this brisk Sunday morning.
My friend’s wedding was too far to travel home on the same night, so a cheap and cheerless hotel was booked. It had a door, well just about a door, and a bed but it did the job by providing somewhere to crawl into. The next day, the hangover wasn’t booked nor ordered but appeared to snipe at me as I packed my bag and as I also picked up the confusing £18.56 in loose change from the bedside table. However, I wasn’t up to questioning anything as I checked out at reception.
The street announcement and educational speech to the community, to clear up and separate any confusion surrounding the ‘gobshite’ and the ‘nan’, came as I drifted past the great estate. It was then followed up by an eager youngster confirming the facts behind the accusation: “Nan , I said you are dead right, not a gobshite. I’m the gobshite!”
The event brought a great escape and a smile to my face on the Sunday sluggish stroll to the station.The delicate head pictured all I said the night before, and halfway to the station, regret then popped into my head for a chat and a good telling off. I was red-faced but embraced the advice and I promised to remember it for next time. I know I’ll eventually forget it the next time I go drinking – but for now, a promise was made.
At the station, I sat on the platform bench clutching my bag as if it was a rubber ring saving me from the headache and the cracking creeks in the brain. I listened to music. Some old and some new artists – but, as usual, I returned to my lifeguard on duty to bring beauty to the raucous world we are plonked and placed in.
I timed my journey well as it was only a few minutes before the train arrived – 16 coaches long. Well, it was maybe 8 but my glasses were in my bag and the rubber ring was keeping me warm, and I was not opening it to take out my glasses to check the number of carriages. I was too busy being hungover.
The short journey back into Liverpool was pleasant, the carriages were full of marriages and children full of smiles and mischief. Workers left the train as new arrivals jumped on board. People gathered, talked, laughed and giggled at the day ahead as I looked for the ‘Ssssssh my heads hurting VIP area’.
But it wasn’t too long before I left the train, still clutching my bag for a cuddle. I then threw the bag across the shoulder and walked through the city. The day was wet and cold but a sunrise peaked in, peaked out, shook it all about and sprinkled sunlight onto the streets I walked. Warmth arrived from the people, the buildings and the soul of Liverpool. Liverpool still brings me the who, what and why and a desire to be part of. It delivers and provides depth, desire and meets expectations. It’s still mine, it’s still ours and yours.
I spent the walk reflecting and, to be honest, I always do. I reflect so much I forget the future is in front of me, I’m too busy being stuck in 1984 at ten past four to understand the world is spinning the other way through the front door. But reflecting is part of me and I know this because I am me – I think ? Reflecting can be dangerous, it can be harmful, haunting and daunting but so is my cooking. So, I carried on reflecting about highs and the lows and thought about the ifs and the buts and the maybes.
Matt Jacobson – Photograph Michelle Marshall
I moved through the streets with speed and desire for my couch and whenI placed the key in the front door, I reflected on home and the question marks around the home. I made myself a drink and sat down and picked up my notepad.
And I made notes of the past…
Tower Hill Mountain
I asked for mercy
in the one bedroomed flat
This flat merged a love
and wove me
into a sorry state,
a sorry fate
I had regret
for this mess
And I asked
the higher realm
pipettes of promise
onto all you said
and all I asked
There seems to be
a fanciful fate
for the few,
none for me,
Crash and burn
nowhere to turn,
nothing i can do
With no love
in my arms
just false alarm
It is now the home for
of lost love
And I miss it
and so I should
and everything scares me
As I don’t have you ,
Or the one bedroomed flat
Reflection then decided to actually drive away from me with a wry smile after a kick to the shins. The day continued and the couch protected me from this, that and t’other and only allowed me to move for cups of tea, to change records and to answer the door to a delivery man who delivered me a parcel for someone else, a business 20 doors down the road. After 21 minutes of explaining I am not ‘Tantalising Tans’, he walked away clutching a parcel and a sat nav app that obviously needs updating. And on this date, a late afternoon snooze snatched me for a few moments which was needed and nice.
The day passed by as I sat and relaxed. The day turned into evening and all of a sudden the next morning was here. And yesterday and the day before were slipping and fading away in the mind, like the days do, like time does. Time can erase days behind us with a teasing piss taking Tipp-Ex and we wonder where time has gone, and did we ever have the time?
This new year or the next may catch us short or it could fly us to the moon. The earth will continue to spin and we might win or we might lose – who knows? Not me, don’t ask me, especially with a hangover. All I know is that life usually leads me, and usually to the biscuit barrel. So, for now, I’ll breathe, sigh and continue to reflect but I’ll also continue to dream.
I’ll enjoy the now, because the now is the closest thing to me I can control. What do I see for the future, next year and beyond? I don’t know – I just hope the new year brings harmony for us all and life can be lived with peace and perfection and this includes life for all animals.
Stay safe, be great,
With Love and Peace
With eternal thanks and gratitude for all the wonderful feedback and support during the year! The correspondence and comments received from Barnsley to Breck Road, Copenhagen to Croxteth and from Sweden to Skelmersdale has left me crumbled on a couch – again. With thanks to; Mr S P Morrissey – for propping up my heart Ste & Donna, at the helm of Explore Liverpool Michelle Marshall for camera snapper skills and making me look human The Spoken Word/Poetry community The Sway. Dave McTague & This Charming, Dan
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