Crosby

Stills was overrated. Nash was never in it. So Emma and I drove up to Crosby. To see this. This I said (scroll down). This! Or maybe even this.

Backdrop to the place was wonderfully functional. Wind turbines, busy shipping lanes (passenger and cargo), high rise residential blocks, docklands, and general Liverpudlianisms. With not even a hint of Beatleage in sight, gladly.

Whereas Anthony Gormley's Angel of the North is an impressive stand-out feature on a hill near Gateshead (north east of England), this work is different in that it is not as high impact in a singular unitary fashion. Whereas The Writer on Parliament Hill or the Angel are basically one big 'fuckin' 'ell', 'Another Place' (Gormley's Crosby installation) covers a much broader space and invites onlookers to walk amongst its 100 life-sized (or Anthony-sized) figures. As with the Angel or The Writer there is not the scope for building serious immediate spin-offs (enterprises) around it. So, for now, the ice-cream men have it. However, the impact in terms of cultural profile or the esteem-laden rub-off that the locals experience is HIGH. Take this piece of dialogue - between Shane and a local Man - as a for instance:

Shane: Hi there, pretty impressive eh?
Man: Oh, there's plenty more - one hundred they reckon.
Shane: Right. Excellent.
Man: Aye.
Shane: You from round here?
Man: Walton - just over-
Shane: Yeah.
Man: Just brought the grandbairns out y' know.
Shane: Mm.
(Man checks that grandbairns haven't just gone belting into the sea - that would be dangerous)
Shane: We came up just to see this.
(Man looks at us as if we're 'strange')
Shane: Have you noticed whether there are more people visiting here now?
Man: Oh aye, no, there's always plenty of people up here - nice beach, oh aye definitely - more people, no.
Shane: Right.
Man: Where are yous from then?
Shane: Midlands City.
Man: Aliens.
Emma: Yeah, that's it. (More quietly) Come on Shane.
Shane: Yeah anyway, nice talkin' to y'.
Man: Mm?

Absolutely. Feelgood coarsing through that Man's veins.

After an hour and a bit of feeling the art, we got back into the Yellow Lupo and headed up the A565 for Southport - a childhood holiday haunt for Emma. At this point I clicked into the most relaxed I'd felt in bloody ages. We knew we were not really very far down the coast from Blackpool, but when she pointed out the Blackpool Tower on the horizon to the north by north west, my oafish northern heart leapt. A surge of childish 'I wanna go on the 'Big Dipper''. The taste of candy floss. Dozens of lager louts spewing into the gutter. My grandfather beating me and Brother Wexford at pitch and putt. Then, Emma spoke.

Emma: It would seem wrong not to do fish 'n' chips really.
Shane: I concur.
Emma: Let's walk.
Shane: Let's.
Emma: To the chip shop.
Shane: To the chip shop.

And so it was. With mushy peas.

It was the shape of romance.