Mick Potter has found his croaky auld voice again and returns to entertain us with a couple of old tales for our End fanzine tribute blog......First up;-
It was a cold lonely night. A voice screamed somewhere in the distance the door clanged shut. Was I reliving past episodes of Within Theses Walls, the gritty aussie drama set in a woman’s nick where Googie Withers, and many a Magnus Pike and dodgy walls took centre stage. If only. Sadly after a derby day session my berth of no choice for the night was Cheapside, Liverpool’s city centre lock up for piss-eads of which I was one. It was a Glaswegian associate who made the comparison with the imposing pre-revolutionary Paris fortress..... The Bastille and the dark damp rat infested diseased ridden hole of no return err Cheapside. To this day he wakes in a cold sweat in his Easterhouse penthouse re-living the nightmare of an aussie white fueled session, the same question going over and over in his mind. “Why is it called aussie white”?? (1) it,s not white (2) it,s not Australian.?....Answers on a post card please because i haven’t a fuckin clue.
Having been bundled in, the classic cell door (a la Porridge) clanged shut . It had one of those spy holes which were considered the modernising face of the penal system back in 1890's, a window which in the morning gave a welcoming gloom, two scabby sort of beds fixed to the walls and a bog in need of a lorry load of bleach in the corner. I woke in the morning to find some paraffin who had been lashed into our chalet and was now dossing underneath my slumberland wearing my Stan Smiths!
“I say ol bean", or words to that effect, “can one have ones trainees (not TRAINERS) back”?. .much to the amusement of a fellow, derby day detainee on the opposite bunk.
I did not like the look of the paraffin’s cornish pasties (shoes) that were left on display for my perusal, with an option to take as my own, which to me didn’t seem like a fair swap. (For you crime/prison anoraks, yep the laces were outside. For you fashion victim bores thinking about an 80's book deal, no they weren't fuckin strap-overs.
Turfed out first light I turned my collar to the cold and damp and headed north .The few bob I had left was my entrance fee for the coming sunday afternoon session… taxis were for ponces. I Remember another stay in chateau Cheapside, being served up cold rice pudding , the afternoon delight. I politely declined. I don’t want to sound like the bird man of Cheapside , more Johnny Cash…( he never did a stretch but what a tune San Quentin is).These days Cheapside is a trendy eatery, hosting functions, one of which I’ll be attending in March, the launch of END contributor, Kevin Sampson’s new book, ominously titled KILLING POOL…..I’ll be the divi pointing under imaginary beds at invisible trainees ,"the bastard was lying there in my Stan Smiths”!