I’m calling a truce. It’s time to stop the flouncing

I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t think The Post is perfect. There, I’ve said it. Every now and then I get all hurt and flounce off (and they, in their patient, time-honoured way, set their egg timer for six weeks). Then, after I’ve seen headlines in the Echo, on the death of Martin Parr shouting: ‘Dad who Photographed New Brighton Dies’, I flounce back again.

Because, yes, I think The Post gets it wrong sometimes. And yes, damn it, they’re just not as interested in cladding and ugly buildings as I am. But — and this is something I’m working through with my proctologist — it’s not all about me, is it? I mean, it’s not, yet, called The David A Lloyd and Liverpool Post Center for the Performing Arts, is it? Although, I’ve heard — and these are very smart people telling me this, the best people – I've heard the name change is happening very soon. Very soon. Some say it could happen next week.

So, when I remember that it’s really only two people running this mad endeavour — Abi and Laurence — and they somehow manage to bring brilliant stories like this and this, I can’t help but feel I should have a quiet word with myself. Which I’m doing now, in public. 

Because, frankly, what they’re managing to do is a trillion times more reflective of the city than, Ooh, let’s just have a quick look at the Echo’s homepage right this second: ‘Huge queues outside M&S’: no, literally, hold the front page, anyone would think it was Christmas or something. Or how about: ‘Henry was so big we had to drag him round the park’: a special report into people fat-shaming their Labrador. And ‘Cast of Home Alone, where are they now?’ Well, unless they’re in The Sandon ordering a round of Brahmas, what the clickbait trash business is it of The Echo anyway? You filthy animal.

So, The Post. I take it all back.  

Imagine what The Post could be if it had more money. Oh, sorry, I should have said: this is an appeal. It’s not just a really unfocused intro to another one of my rants about car parks. Imagine if it could employ more local writers and photographers, pay more freelancers, stage more events: a culture editor, say, or a food person or an astrologer (maybe not that one). Imagine if it was a fully fleshed out team instead of two slightly frazzled young reporters and an odd assortment of occasional contributors, like the brilliant Melissa Blease and the always-essential Jack Walton.

Imagine how exciting The Post would be then. If all of you lovely people who read it for free just gave in to your better angels — if the funds are there — and forked out less than the price of a Nando’s for two (if you don’t go for the full platter).

Because we know The Post is brilliant at investigative stuff. And it’s not shy of telling us too. (That’s OK. I’ve flounced off about its self-congratulatory tone once before, but I’m fine with it now). 

But all that snooping takes time: and while Abi’s locking horns with a real wrong ‘un, if The Post had more paying subscribers it could be paying me to drink the finest wines known to humanity in some louche all-night speakeasy in Netherton, and writing about it for you. Win, win, I’m sure you’ll agree?

Fact is, I treat this place like a hotel. I sashay in, demand to write about shit street art, and sashay out again. But, sometimes, I get the feeling that I’m not shouting into the void. Sometimes, I feel like I’m part of something. Dare I say a community? And I’m not writing for some faceless editor in Canary Wharf (which I’m also doing right now. I’ve been commissioned to write a ‘top ten pub lunch winter walks across the UK’ — with this heartening note from the editor ‘Make five of them within the M25, two in the south, one in Wales, one in Scotland and one in the North.’) 

You see what we’re up against, right? 

When I pitched my Post story about the loss of my lovely mum, and of how it echoed something deeper — the slow, deliberate disenfranchisement of our elderly and vulnerable —  Abi instantly said yes. It’s not the kind of thing The Post usually runs, and it’s definitely not the kind of soul-bearing stuff I usually write, but we both knew that these little stories speak to a bigger truth. A shared knowing. Because, despite what you might be led to believe on social media, the stuff that connects us is way, way more powerful than the forces intent on driving us apart. That’s kind of why The Post exists. It’s why it matters, and why it needs your support. 

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If I’m honest, that’s what I crave more of. I know I should really, really care about nasty councillors but, honestly, I have enough trouble with the damp proofing in my extension.

I’d love to read more stories about us. All of us. Not just the bad guys. Stories that capture what it’s like to be alive in Liverpool now. I know The Post wants this too – essential writing that illuminates this singular city, shining light on familiar places from unfamiliar angles, with no agenda. 

We all long for connection, don’t we? We’re all fighting for our lives out there. Clinging on. Tethering ourselves to whatever we trust to be true. 

And here's the thing: The Post is one of those tethers. It gives a shit about the actual city we live in — not some clickbait version of it, or some London editor's idea of what "the North" is (which, in case you hadn’t noticed, seems to be Manchester).