Thursday 29 September 1988

I must have passed enough of my A Levels with acceptable grades as today I was off to Liverpool (my first choice) to start at University.

My Mum drove me into town to catch the train.  As usual, the Shrewsbury traffic was terrible, and as was also usual I fretted and worried that I was going to miss the train.  But!  No fear!  I made it just in time and after an hour or so I was changing trains at Crewe and another hour later I emerged into the vast concourse that was (and still is) Liverpool Lime Street.

The University’s whole operation was so very slick and obviously designed to be of as much assistance to us new students.  I was met by a what can only be described as a welcoming committee and quickly dispatched to a waiting coach for the ride up to my hall of residence.

The hall that I was to call home for thirty of the next thirty-eight weeks was Dale Hall in Mossley Hill.  The building was based on the design of a Swedish prison (I kid you not) and as such featured pairs of rooms which shared a bathroom, all hidden behind a front door off the corridor.  I had not been in my room for long before I heard my neighbour, coughing, spluttering and sneezing like a good ‘un.  (During the course of life at Dale Hall, I was also to hear my upstairs neighbour and her sex-life soundtracked by Tracy Chapman’s eponymous debut album.  But that’s another story…)

Anyway, as things had been so crappy for me at Sixth Form (partly / mostly / wholly my own fault, of course) I decided that I should knock on my neighbour’s door and introduce myself.  Born and raised in Bury (that’s Booreh, not Berry) my new friend A*** and I had soon turned our conversation to alcohol and arranged a visit to the highly rated local hostelry, the Rose of Mossley.  In fact, scrub that, we originally visited Chris’s Chippie.  We only found the pub after having bought our chips.

The Rose of Mossley – from

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