My deranged imagination had conjured up a mythical vision of Liverpool.  Maybe from sea stories or ballads, I had grand expectations of the town.  Rough docks and ships to match, dirty pubs where the sound of glass breaking accompanies the drunken revelry of blue collar chaps, leather jackets and flat caps, and a place where the Beatles were remembered as "sellouts" or "wankers."  Just the town for a good scrapin' right?  Wrong.  The closest thing we sailors got to a roughen up was from a 10 year old boy that heckled shipmate Tim upon our arrival at the dock.  "Look at your hat!" he exclaimed, referring to Tim's salty So'wester cap.  "Have you seen yourself?!  You look ridiculous!"  Not knowing how to respond to such a confrontation, Tim sheepishly turned away as the other bystanders on the dock cackled in approval.  Being too immersed in the task at hand on deck and thoroughly enjoying ordering Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott and his cronies around, I did not come to the defense of my beleaguered shipmate and let the little whipper snapper get away with such a insult to a mariner.  He will get what he has coming sooner or later.
We soon after had the ship snug at her pier with the crew all having a good laugh about the unruly public on the docks.  But as it turned out Liverpool, as a whole, was an old town immersed in redefining it's self as the cultural capital of the UK, which in other words means a lot of construction and posh shopping centers.  Overall Liverpool was a great port stop with good shore exploring, a great turnout for tours including the Reverend Jesse Jackson, and fine people, even though a rough and tumble pub was hard to find.

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