Monday, 23 July 2012

More Potters Tales- Budapest

Potters Tales –Budapest (Photo’s from Andrew Hudson’s / Reds in Europe facebook accounts)

Flicking through facebook, I came across the photo below and immediately recognised former End writer, seller and high haired lover from Liverpool Michael Potter esq.

I contacted him to enquire if it is him or whether he has a handsome doppelganger and the following is his response……………

Yep. le metro in Budapest. That pic attached tis me.

I decided to treat myself (being 50) and book a swanky pad to watch the once mighty reds, as it happens, crash dismally out of Europe. Still never let the match get in the way of a good jaunt out of blighty eh! This plan was quickly scuppered.

On arrival in Budapest the advanced party, namely a founder member of the N.M.C ( the fearsome north mersey casuals, Hightown branch ) who on second thoughts i won’t name.. informed me there was a spare bunk in his room. Too much for the chancing door hinge I have worryingly become to resist. Yes, my great no expense spared trip hadn’t involved booking a room. In fact I had only jumped at the last minute on some other poor souls flight who was having problems with a court order which carried a bit of weight shall we say.

I’ll start somewhere near the beginning. A couple of sparks from Litherland (a little known borough on the posher side of Bootle) kindly took, billy no mates, me under their wing. As mentioned previously, their buddy was bare knuckling bailiffs. Another addition to the posse as well as me was a chain smoking kopite (more about him later) the jump off point, the PRIORY. (not to be confused with the detoxing mansion where you can dry out if you have a few spare  g’s).  Nope this PROIRY certainly contains a few piss artists who on no account would pay good dough ...... not to have a drink In the shadow of Litherland town hall were the fab four played many a rousing gig. (Its said George Harrison’s nasal scouse-ness wasn’t fully appreciated, "where the fuck are you from lad" that as they say is another story for another day).

NOTTINGHAM international airport is an awful gruesome place. Proceedings were briefly livened up by a bulky Birkonian on the arm of a buxom traveling companion with a fondness for cider. To this day he is nostalgically remembered as Davey Apples although not to his face. The hotel foyer can be a tricky place especially if you are trying to outwit the can lad who’s onto you.

Keep up!........... we have now touched down in a foggy BUDAPEST. The postage stamp hotel reception area meant you had to negotiate the serial killer behind the counter dishing out the keys (the concierge, Norman bates, whatever JEEPERS, what if he thought I was new bitch on the block . Anyway I was in! 90 squid is 90 squid isn’t it ?
Literally outside of our, yes it’s now our hotel taking in the gloomy Danube air I bumped into a lad who uttered the immortal line" what are you doing here??" I thought everyone knew about the by-annual gypsy violinist competition of the year. Anyway we retreated to a nearby Magyar bar to sup hot wine which even met with the approval of the Litherland sparks or should that be sharks? My asthmatic lungs gave a thumbs up too. As normally happens on such a trip, to far flung mysterious cities full of local tradition and intrigue, you quickly embrace a sports bar with frothy lager served up by busty tottee. This trip didn’t break with tradition. .The Sports Bar was its charming name, packed to the rafters it seemed with punters from the NORTH LIVERPOOL region… not citizens of BUDAPEST. When I say north Liverpool I can pin it down geographically tighter, to the greater BOOTLE area. Maybe there was a holiday declared by the stout yeomen at BOOTLE TOWN HALL? (yes there is such a place)

The night ended more or less as it had begun, back at Draculas castle negotiating the cold eyed killer on reception. I waved a cheery good-night as I left the nicities to HIGHTOWNS top boy who was an official guest. I woke in a cold sweat!.. the nightmare still vivid, the hotel concierge swinging the ice pic towards my skull. Maybe I had too much hot wine?

Day 2.The St Andrews bar. Another non Hungarian haunt. More members of the BOOTLE independence movement. This time a younger more dynamic element. A good little crew of cheery souls displaying a banner topped or should that be bottomed off with a liver bird sporting a pair of samba. An un doubted homage to the 80,s when some of their own dads (actually on this trip) MADE THE DASSLER BRUVVERS A FEW MORE MARKS..Later in the day we stumbled into a bohemian jazz bar thick with ciggie smoke. "Just like the old days", the chain smoking kopite said emotionally. Soon, the aromatic aroma of home-grown Mersey Backie enfused the premises, no one seemed to bother or care. The Budapest metro beckoned ( see photo ) the rain came down, and the reds went out.

After the game the Litherland three struck up a friendship with an ex bizzie now full time piss artist who told nasty stories about FERAVAROUS ULTRAS. He insisted on driving them back to the city centre, a precarious journey where loved ones flashed before collective eyes. We all met up  surprise surprise, in the sports bar. There was only one more thing to endure…. Norman Bates in gloomy towers (definately not the swanky hotel I had dreamed of.) I did and lived to tell the tale

phil hope you enjoy, mistakes an all I’ve christened it “reeel writin”, regards to the Stockey ‘eads.


(Mid photo and the shout goes up that “Der Throstles Schnest” is open and our man Potter is on his feet and on his way before the shutter on the camera has finished its mechanical wink)

You can still buy The END BOOK and read many other Michael Potter musings, Peter’s pondering and Sampson’s shenanigans………….oh and not forgetting John, Paul, Tony and meself

There’s a limited amount of signed copies in Waterstones on Bold Street and in the Liverpool 1 Waterstones store... and of course you can still get it on line here.">

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