Prescot- within a cheering distance.
In many ways the town of Prescot would hardly if at all, merit any conversation or discussion in the bigger picture of things. Prescot, of course, as we should all know, is synonymous with electrical cables. It is the electrical hub of not only Prescot and Liverpool but also the rest of the world. Without Prescot you'd probably struggle to make a cup of tea in the morning, switch on the TV, heat up your home and just plug in a whole variety of mechanisms so that your day will work and run both smoothly and efficiently. Prescot never hogs the early evening news, never getting the bouquets of praise it so richly deserves and there is no sense of appreciation for its unsung endeavours. Prescot is just there for you all to admire.
Last week my lovely wife Bev and I travelled up to Prescot and found it to be both charming, welcoming, friendly and delighted to greet anybody who just happens to be passing through. Prescot never gets the headlines, nor the seedy or salacious gossip that would probably have attracted the attention of the old Sunday newspaper the News of the World. They are just grateful,
Nobody really wants to be famous or indeed notorious in Prescot because it's a gentle and quiet backwater in Northern England that just sits there and minds its own business. So here's the observation. Prescot is renowned for its electrical cables. On a traffic roundabout there are some of the most striking and artistically pleasing metallic objects that look like giant cotton reels but are not quite cotton reels. It took you a while to realise that these were, in fact, the wires and cables most of us take for granted. Preston is full of electricity and vital connections with the outside world.
Now in the general scheme of things, you would never have known Prescot was there. It is full of modesty, humility and a lovely looking community centre. Lest we forget it does, of course boast its own police station and a wide variety of shops, restaurants and cafes. There's nothing unusual about that but it does serve as a reminder that every town, big city, village and city does have its accompanying suburbs. Prescot could never be accused of being tedious or mundane. Most certainly this could never be the case.
But within cheering distance of both Liverpool and Everton football clubs. it does represent the heartbeat of one of Britain's lesser known suburbs. During the week we have just passed, Prescot was never a hive of activity nor was it jammed solid with tourists from around the world. But, there it was, a small, tightly knit community just getting on with the business at hand. Ordinarily, Prescot makes a tidy profit every day and the sprinkling of butchers in the shopping centres just leave their mouth watering hunks of beef, chicken and lamb hanging in their window, like an invitation to a birthday party.
On one day though your heart was lifted most noticeably by some memorable revelation. Next to Prescott's shopping mall, an elderly gentleman sat next to the entrance of the building. For a moment you had to stop in sheer wonderment because it was a sight that none of us would have given a second glance to. We'd have been preoccupied with doing our shopping, popping into the shopping mall's charity shops or just browsing the shelves with increasing fascination.
But here was our old, upright and honourable gentleman. He was just sitting there with his accordion, warmly wrapped in several layers of clothing and wearing a coat to add extra comfort. The pomp and pageantry of a stunningly warm summer had gone but an autumnal splendour had joined our friend. He was there cross legged, gently manipulating his squeeze box with a wondrous assurance and dexterity. You couldn't help but notice that the buttons on the accordion were worse for wear. Still, we were there to witness this hugely compelling spectacle and nothing else mattered at all. He was happy and so were we.
Some of the songs our accordion playing friend sounded ever so slightly familiar, one of which sounded like the soundtrack to an old Western movie from Hollywood's golden age. For a minute you were convinced that you'd walked into Brussels in Belgium, Amsterdam in the Netherlands or some endearing market town in Switzerland where the day would be dominated by the sound of grand sounding church bells. But this was Prescot near Liverpool in England, a musical haven on that day. Or so it seemed. But this gentleman was determined that nothing should ever get him down. His nimble fingers flickered across the buttons and his only objective was to entertain the passers by.
Meanwhile back in the main shopping centre, there was a strangely comforting silence, a wonderfully spacious grandeur about Prescot that might have gone amiss had you not noticed it. Outside a Wetherspoons restaurant called the Watch Maker, the same men would take up their positions on the bench quietly surveying the scene around them before drinking their first pint of lager of the day. You couldn't help but notice the small array of betting shops near Wetherspoons and the William Hills next to the Watch Maker slowly filling up with contented gamblers who just wanted to win a couple of quid on the horses at York.
Clearly Northern England is not the stereotype that might have been depicted by the great LS Lowry with his industrial mills and match stalk men and cats. There are no smoking chimneys or the blast furnaces full of dirt or repulsive smelling chemicals. There are no young boys trundling their barrows up and down delightful cobblestone roads. Nor are there any whippets whatsoever or flat caps for that matter. But there is Prescot with its reassuring solidity, its air of wonderful permanence and then something else that caught our eyes.
My wife and I decided to take our beautiful granddaughter to the Shakespeare North theatre. For the last fortnight we've been taking her to one of her baby playgroups. But then we noticed the theatre's association with one of the funniest comedians from way back when. The late and great Sir Ken Dodd had given his whole hearted backing and, quite possibly, financial support for this remarkable building. While walking out of the Shakespeare North theatre you were made aware of just how much it must have meant to Dodd both emotionally and spiritually.
So there's Prescot. Prescot is straightforward, straight down the line, unpretentious. It is Britain at its most local, regional and comfortable in its skin. There are no private roads where glamorous celebrities live in sumptuous palaces. There are no thick white columns or pillars outside their homes, very few gravelled driveways and no security intercoms situated next to statues of lions guarding the front doors. True the marvellous Sue Johnson of the BBC's classic sitcom the Royle Family does come from Prescot and she must be enormously proud of her birth place.
But Prescot is essentially on the outskirts and, just down the road, the legend of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley can be heard reverberating around the Albert Dock. Liverpool were and continue to be the impeccable standard bearers of footballing excellence. Around Prescot there is a large and significant following for the club. The heroes and idols are always uppermost in their minds because they were part of that surging, swaying throng of supporters who tumbled down the Kop and must have thought they were dreaming.
The local team Preston Cables are now playing in the Northern Premier League Division (West). They are second in this League and this afternoon meet Wythenshawe at the Auto Safety Centre Stadium which sounds like the local car mechanics garage but must have a prominent role in Prescot's social standing. A couple of days ago the Pesky Bulls, to give Prescot their affectionate nickname, were beaten by Mossley 3-2 but approach today's game against Wythenshawe with the same kind of confidence they've always shown.
A couple of seasons ago our wonderful son and his friends took dad to his first Preston Cables match. Considering their humble non League status, the Cables played moderately well that afternoon. But there is still an old school, old fashioned grandeur about Preston Cables. The stands and terraces are still rickety but magnificently sturdy when the mood takes them. On the opposite side of the ground of where we standing there are a huddle of houses with bright, shiny solar panels while in one small and isolated corner, the youngsters were simply being lively and active, jumping around thick clumps of grass and then watching the game again when it looked as if the Cables were about to score.
Prescot live easily in the lengthening shadows of Liverpool's Anfield and Everton's Hill Dickinson Stadium. They still do a roaring trade in meat pies and one day they too may be able to compete against the likes of Preston, Bolton, Oldham, Burnley, Manchesters United and City and Blackburn Rovers. At the moment, this is just pie in the sky thinking, some daft concept that will never ever come to fruition. So thankyou Prescot. It was a privilege to be among your company.
