Try walking out on a Sunday night in Liverpool.
Start at Windsor Street Wines and head South.
Impersonated an empress, get yourself arress’did, smoking something splendid, think I might have impressed him.
Walk on by Hill Street Wines, you’ve already past your bed time.
Past this bright graffiti. Y’know when you’re 4 beers in and everything is amazing? Then next to a mosque a young girl plays go down High Park Street where being bright pays. Go out on a Sunday night through The Welsh Streets, a gorgeous prince you shall there meet, Or a scouser with a big konk.
majorloveme 
Hey there Lady Maxine.
This has no relevance to the blog post, but I’m just jumping in here to say what a pleasure it was to volunteer with you at BD last week.
The two women whose bags we helped carry live in Liverpool and they said they recognised you from something but couldn’t put their finger on it. I was intrigued enough to Google your name and loads of stuff came up – you certainly lead an interesting life!
I’m stunned with admiration for your house renovation adventurers, language skills, and general creativity (but not so much for your hiking attempts 😉).
You’re clearly a deeply impressive person (as well as being astonishingly beautiful and heart-meltingly charming… obviously 😍).
Anyway, I hope you’ll forgive me for a bit of low-level stalking! I’ll leave you in peace now, but hope to meet you again sometime.
Carlos
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Hello Carlos Davies….you must be the man im thinking of… young man in his 40’s looks a lot older (wiser?) Hung around the bar a lot trying to not to be seen reusing his drink tokens more than once? Nice to hear from you, my writing is done regardless of audience but it is good to know someone reads it. I hear im now public property on teh internet bit afraid to google my name so keep an eye of my reputation for me will ya…..Roll on BD 2023 xx
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Well this is awkward! I don’t think I’m the man you’re thinking of. I hold my hand up to looking older than my 40s, due to the fact I’m 55 (as for wiser, that’s not really my call to make). I didn’t have any drink tokens, and I certainly didn’t hang around the bar a lot – an outrageous allegation, young lady! I was there with a friend called Matthew.
We only met briefly three times all weekend and I’m a remarkably forgettable person, so I won’t be too offended if you don’t remember me. We wristbanded at the main gate on Friday and you roped me into helping you carry some bags to the campsite for a cute lesbian couple, just before the end of our shift (they were the ones who thought they recognised you).
The second time was at the main stage, to the left of the mixing desk. You walked past and I called your name a bit too loudly and made you jump. I then gabbled excitedly at you for a few minutes. Like an imbecile.
Our final meeting was on the Sunday in roughly the same place at the main stage during Bjork. You had lights on your head and looked splendid. We spoke for longer but I mostly just asked you idiotic questions and generally behaved with all the social skills of an autistic hermit. I’m usually a bit more eloquent than that and had we spent more time together I might have calmed down a bit and done a more convincing impression of a human being.
Hope this jogs your memory. Matthew and I are already thinking of going back next year, so maybe we’ll meet again… when I fully expect you to have absolutely no recollection of my existence. In the meantime I’ll probably drop into here every now and then to read your nonsense 😉
Carlos
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Hello again. Did you remember who I am in the end? You didn’t respond to the post above so I thought you might still be confusing me with some drink token-scamming bar-fly you met. I know us creepy middle-aged men all look the same, so it’s easily done.
Obviously it’s not that important, but I only started posting here on the assumption that you would know who I am, otherwise it feels a bit weird (but not weird enough to actually stop doing it). Also, I don’t want some other poor sap to take the blame for the shit I write.
So, while I hate to make this all about me (Plot Twist: I LOVE making it all about me) I’ll give you some more details in an effort to jog your mammaries.
I was always with Matthew the times we met. We were possibly the only two southerners amongst the volunteers (from Cambridge). He is the better-looking one, but don’t tell him I said that as he’s obnoxious enough as it is. We are both the same height (5’8″ – shorter than you). I had short cropped hair and a receding hairline (I’m really selling myself here, aren’t I?). Fairly tanned and quite hairy due to being a bit Spanish.
Wearing brown knee-length shorts and hiking boots and, on Saturday, a retina damaging white shirt with oranges on it. On Sunday a white shirt with tropical leaves and a cap with a bird on the front.
I had been drinking for a good few hours (both days) but can vaguely remember some of our conversation: You asked if I’d seen Bjork before and I told you about Glastonbury 1994; I said that when you were working in your hi-viz you reminded us of Lady Gabby, a character from The Outlaws played by Eleanor Tomlinson, but you hadn’t seen the show; I refused (and still refuse!) to believe you don’t know how tall you are (everyone knows how tall they are, ya big weirdo); I told you about our friend’s little daughter and her obsession with trying to get me to push Matthew over on his back, to which you replied “She sounds evil. I love her!”; Finally you spat some chewing gum into a plastic cup, announced “That’s all I’ve got to say”, and just elegantly walked away, never to be seen again.
I’ve gone on long enough now. If your mammaries remain un-jogged, I don’t know what else to tell you. I shall have to remain a mystery until we possibly meet again, when you’ll declare “Oh, I remember you now! You were a right twat”.
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