Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine used disgraced academic for race report

Dear readers – you might remember that last week’s briefing fell into the lap of Jack Walton, the self-described dregs of the Post’s writing offer. Jack’s now on his holidays, enjoying the pastoral delights of a twee folk festival in his hometown down South … and trying to pry the local press into expenses-paid pub reviews. 

So, what lies below the dregs? The teapot itself? The memory of dregs? Or, me, Ethan, the Post’s new staff writer. Hello all. 

I got on board by freelancing for the Mill, our sister paper in Manchester. I was brought up there, before I packed my bags for Oxford three years ago, where I softened the corners of a northern accent doing that famous degree that all the worst politicians do. I never fancied the dark arts, though. 

Here at the Post, I’ll be chasing all those stories shaping modern Liverpool that need an eager eye. So, if you’ve got a lead – from a hyperlocal neighbourhood drama, to an institution getting away with something for too long – drop me a line, and I’ll get back to you.

Over the weekend, many of you took a trip in time with Melissa Blease’s vivid tour of the city’s 1970s culinary offer. Of all of Liverpool’s bygone spots, the Berni Inn seems to figure most clearly in the oral history that emerged in the comments. And of all the images it conjured, this, from Jo, was my favourite: 

Until adulthood, I’m afraid my sum total of fine dining in the 70s and 80s was exactly… *one* Obviously it was a Berni Inn, the one on Lord Street, for my tenth birthday. I’d specifically asked to be taken there as my “main present”, but my abiding memory isn’t the food. It’s being totally flummoxed by how all the grown-ups in my family suddenly started speaking in loud, weird posh voices- “Janet, would you perhaps like the scampi?” Hahaha since when?!

No matter. The same alien grown-ups bought me a Jack Russell the next day, which we can all agree beats a Black Forest gateau.