Liverpool's 800th birthday: an alternative charter for the city

Aug 28 2007 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

On the day Liverpool celebrates its 800th birthday, Daily Post writer David Charters offers up an alternative charter for the city as we embark on the next chapter in our rich and varied history

ON THIS 28th day of August in the year of 2007, by the Grace of God and the Blessed Virgin (that tickles the old memory, eh), I have been commanded by a force unseen, otherwise known as our Cultural Ambassador, to write a Great Charter for Liverpool, with the hefty ambition of guiding us into the next 800 years.

But before beginning the task, I should take you back in time . . .

Some of you will remember – dare I guess, in most cases from history books rather than personal contact– how exactly 800 years ago King John signed our first Charter, leaving smudges on the parchment from his permanently leaking, warted nose.

Even then, when eagles roamed the skies, he was treading briskly down that muddied path, which would make him the most unpopular monarch ever to release wind on these fair shores.

“By Jove, it’s John,” his wife, Isabella of Angouleme, would say with uncanny accuracy, as he approached the family cowshed, where she toiled, a peg clasped on her nose.

But here, in Liverpool, he was embraced with open arms. It is said he entered with rare vigour into a contest in which an inflated sow’s bladder was hoofed up and down a stretch of derelict land.

“Was this not to be the site of the First Grace?” said a wag in the crowd, before his pals stuffed his wriggling body into a barrel and rolled him down a hill into the river. This was a splendid, early demonstration of the humour for which Liverpool would later win an international reputation.

“Scousers, de funniest people in de werld, Scousers de funniest people in de werld,” repeated a bald parrot on his perch in a dockside tavern, as he responded to mild promptings from a red-hot poker.

“Does he float or does he sink?” asked Fred Done, a bookie from Salford, who had chanced upon the scene, watching the barrel from the quayside, while punters dropped groats into his pot.

“He sinks,” whooped one half, collecting their winnings.

“Keep your elbows down, you dirty git,” bellowed a young knave to John on the nearby field of sport.

No sooner had his pimpled jaw closed on these words than two strapping lads in surprisingly frivolous tights grabbed him by the arms and secured him to a handy tree, where he was soundly thrashed by his friends.

“After a short, sharp invasion of Ireland, there is nothing like whipping a young peasant to within an inch of death to please the mob,” whispered John, a cruel smile spreading over his thin lips. Then, without warning, he grabbed the half-time oranges, every one of which he sucked dry himself.

Soon dusk settled over the little port and the last fingers of the tired sun, slipped into the brooding waters of the river.

“Do you know what,” said John, removing a wad of chewing-gum from his left boot, before mounting his trusty stallion. “These people please me. They will have their own Charter. I must learn to write.”

Now, we are advancing again into the present age. It is August 24 and a mock-medieval mood has spread over the office. Hey nonny-no.

“Prithee, good wench,” said the editor to his secretary, as she limped into his presence hauling a bag of prunes. “Tell me, who is that fool capering towards us with the cap and bells?”

“Forsooth, my lord,” she said. “That is your loyal minstrel and scribe David Charters from Birkenhead, your colony over the water.”

“Charters! Charters! Did you say Charters? Gadzooks, that gives me an idea. This day, I am touched by genius. We must get him to write a new Charter of Liverpool for 2007 and our Cultural Ambassador.”

So it was that I found myself, sitting on the Mersey banks, quill in hand, thoughts floating beyond my grasp.

“Is that you? Is that you?” A mighty voice sounded in the sky.

“Oh God,” I thought. I have been transported back into the Old Testament.

“No, not God,” said the voice, “but John, King John.”

I looked up and there he was, the old rascal, sitting on a cloud with a trumpet stretching from the thicket of bristles and wax in his right ear.

“How on earth did you get up there?” I asked. “I thought you would be certain to join Hitler, Vlad the Impaler, Dr Crippen, my own Aunty Gertie (the legendary lacrosse thwacker from Lower Bebington) and all the others toasting their buttocks on the hobs of Hell.”

“Well, you know us Scousers,” said John. “We can get in anywhere. Didn’t you see me at the Milk Cup Final at Wembley in 1984? Anyway, St Peter was standing at the doors in a penguin suit with his arms folded. Looked as though he had spent some time in the gym, I’ll tell you. Head shaved like a tennis ball.

“He wanted to know why I was standing there grinning.

“I’ve got an appointment with a pal,” I said, pointing over his shoulder. “As soon as he turned round I was in, offering God a chip. Never looked back, until I heard you moaning about this Charter you’ve got to write.

“Do you know what I’d put if I was you? No. Well take this down.

“‘Don’t be a divvy like me and lose your crown and all your admirers because you can’t stop squabbling with people.

“There aren’t many chances to do well down there and if you miss those chances, you are condemned forever, deservedly.

“But your city bubbles with talent and goodwill. You know up here, I’m always floating into fellow Scousers. Only yesterday, I saw Noel Chavasse, your soldier/doctor from the Great War, who won the double VC and MC for treating wounded soldiers under gunfire. He was talking to George Harrison – dear old George. Everyone loves him in these parts. Sometimes in the morning he sits by God and sings Here Comes the Sun. We all laugh at that.

“My advice is be of good cheer, keep the faith, don’t cheat, work hard, offer your hand in friendship to strangers and rest the same hand over the shoulders of those who are crying. Kindness counts for so much. Laugh whenever you can. Be proud, my sons and daughters.”

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