It started as a snowy day in Sheffield, with much anticipation rising at  the thought of bevvying in the Cracke again that night. 

Sheffield was drowned in thick , thick snow and travel out in those weather conditions  usually gets hectic or non-existent. My child kept asking me if Paul Mc  Cartney was going to be there, as at the tender age of 6 and a half he  loves the Beatles. I thought about taking an out of focus photo in the  Cracke of some ancient liobian and pretending it was Macca but the  parental moral imperative of telling the truth to children got the better  of me. After he had gone off to school, reluctantly, as he wanted to come  with me, I sat down in front of the telly to see to my horror footage of  a train crash north of Sheffield that morning. For those expats we had a  crash which killed 13 people and injured many more. It was truly  heartbreaking to see this, especially in the light of the fact it  happened in such a bizarre way with a car running out of control off the  M62 onto the tracks in the way of an express train to London which was  derailed and then pulverised by another freight train.

From my purely selfish point of view I wondered how the hell I was going  to get to Liverpool in such bad weather and with a crash which would  inevitably have a domino effect on rail services out of Sheffield which  is not much further south than where the tragedy occurred. I rang up the  national timetable phone line for the railways and actually got out of  the queuing system within 15 minutes. That's a first, that, as usually  you are held on line for yonks before you get an operator. I was told  that the Liverpool trains were OK, just running 15 minutes late.

Felling slightly reassured I packed my bag to have it then unpacked and  "packed properly" by my wife who removed the condoms and crisps. ( The crisps she snarled were for the little lad's packed lunch and were  duly confiscated.) She said I hadn't got a chance of any infidelity in  the Pool because I was too old, too ugly and it would all be old blokes!!! I reminded her that last time I stayed at the tawdry shithouse known as  the Feathers Hotel in Mount Pleasant some 6 years ago, whilst studying  for my Msc at the Uni, that indeed I had been propositioned and you never  know your luck. She just gave me that ironic look of disdain that us  middle age chaps get when we relive our youth!! When I stayed at that  place before I ended up in their cocktail bar at some ridiculous time in  the morning with the resident salesmen and itinerant navvies using the  hotel as digs. A motley crew if there ever was. The barman managed to  get my life history out of me in 30 seconds and chatted away affably for  an hour or so before whispering to me . " Yurron yurown, Paul aren't yuh  ?   " "Yes" I replied naively. "Do yuh wanna birra company like tonight like" he muttered  conspiratorially. Two things went through my mind 1. Did he mean a local lady of the night 2. Did he mean him  ?     ?    

AAArgh!!!! I deftly avoided the situation by making some anodyne excuse  that I was getting up really early in the morning to get my train and  would not be needing any company.( Especially you, you big swarthy get,  I thought.) To this day I don't know if he meant him or a tart and he  wasn't there this time. Phew. What a relief, Anyway I assured my dear little nest of vipers that I had never been  unfaithful to her and had no intention of doing so. Chance would be a  fine thing!!!. 

Off I went via the barbers for a " Don't mess with me " hard haircut in  case I got into any bother and down to the station. The snow cascaded  down in swathes of white and I steeled myself for a ten hour journey  instead of the usual two hours. 

The train pulled out with me experiencing little frissons of excitement  that I get going by this form of transport. It now lacks the clickety  clack and the whoosh and woo, woo of the steam train but what the hell.  The journey was magnificent gliding through the peak district covered in  snow. At times there was no differentiation between the acid whiteness  of the sky and the hillsides except for a faint black line, almost  penciled on by a child, which demarcated the top of a mountain and the  start of the sky. Slurped railway coffee from the trolley. It tasted like  I conjecture ersatz coffee made of acorns during the war must have tasted  like.

I discovered to my joy that I was beginning to understand some of TS  Eliot's poems which I had bought with me and scribbled vignettes of my  journey and the thoughts of being back home, something I do not do often  enough. Between tensing every time the train goes over a bump, reading  the reports of the crash in my local paper, I drift off into existential  musings and reverie.

What if no-one turns up  ?   What if I get pissed and lose my way back to  the hotel. What if I drop me money and get evicted. What if get told  off for previous e-mail transgressions. What if it's dead boring. What  if I don't like them and they don't like me. What will they look like.  Will I lose my school boy photos, found after 20 years lost in our kid's  archives  ?   Will Stan sing those warm and inimitable songs. Will I sing  my song about Hillsborough that I rarely can bring myself to do. Will I  even walk into the Lion's den of rabid red and blue footy supporters and  shout " It's a girl's game. Rugby's the only game!!!! 

"Gerra grip Gilbo" I said to myself  "It's going to be the apotheosis of Aceness with bonhomie, camaraderie  and the amber nectar flowing down parched Liverpudlian throats. What if  I make a fool of myself and call everyone Wack.( Men call each other  "Luv" in Sheffield and I always have to watch myself in hostelries in  other climes. You can picture the scene with me in a foreign boozer  asking a big strapping barman "Pint of Lager please, Luv." I get some very quizzical reactions. Perfectly all right form of  address in my neck of the woods.

Hit the sandstone cuttings at Edge Hill singing to myself "I wish I was  in Liverpool" by Monsieur Kelly and for some unknown reason "Meet on the  ledge" by Fairport Convention" To me that is always the point that I  know I am home when I go down those cuttings, although you already travel  through the suburban area where I spent my adolescent years. They're awe  inspiring to this day. 

Arrived in Liverpool and boldly stroll up to the hotel in Mount Pleasant  taking in as much as possible . Liverpool, it fits me like an old glove  I chuckle, but then hear my own voice. "Home again, Home again Jiggetty  jog" as the nursery rhyme goes.

Check into my tawdry room and phone the missus. She is startled with  the alacrity of my arrival as I am myself. What could have been the  journey from hell was tranquil and quick. 

My first port of call is the Cracke pub. One of my Sheffield's friend  daughter is at the Uni now and works as a barmaid in this most hallowed  of alehouses. She is not working today but I get into conversation at  the bar about the liobian hordes coming that night. I mention my Dad's  days playing the clarinet at the Phil. An old geezer with white hair,  beard and black beret standing at the bar, ears flapping into my  conversation, pipes up " Are you Tom Gilbert's son" I spin round aghast. I had been in Liverpool for about an hour. I reply, shocked  "Yes, do I know you" He says "I was at your fathers funeral" Spooky music from the twilight zone starts playing in my reeling ears. " I was with Stanley Haddon at the funeral" he continues." I didn't have  all the hair and beard" then he adds. Stanley Haddon was the well known 2nd clarinet player, legend in his own  lunch time etc.

This is very strange to me as I don't recognise this fella at all. He  describes the massive turn out at the crematorium., the Mozart clarinet  concerto in A played by my dad's pupils He was obviously there.  Everybody just knows this bloke as Duvall and I hoped he would come back  in the evening but he doesn't show.

He told me what a great man my dad was. I had been in Liverpool for less  than a blinking of the eye for a liobian's bash not me Dad's valediction.  Very odd, and ultimately moving. 

After a couple of small scoops there I wander down past the school,  stopping to stare for a while, then on to China town. It wasn't  officially China town when I was lad and that huge gate at the entrance  was an eye opener. Down the street with the Blackie on the left, past  the Nook pub ( Is that still open  ?   ) I approach a little square which has a few swings  and seats on it. The grass isn't flat but in raised hummocks. This,  when I was at the Inny, was a crown green bowling green and we used to  play there sometimes at lunch time, accompanied by chips in curry sauce,  a gourmet's delight. It still has the same railings and I stood for a  while trying to see it as it was. There were a few desultory kids and  mums playing but I felt uncomfortable sitting amongst them. I don't  know about you lot but when I stop to take in things, to stare and  remember, someone always comes up and bursts my bubble. Usually if I am  looking up at some old building like the one near to Great George's ( The  Blackie) with it's original advert for a long gone eccles cake  manufacturer, I get stared at as if I am casing the joint for some  potential nefarious activities. It makes me feel some times that you  have to keep moving not to be considered a crank, burglar or child  molester. Look purposeful and grab a glimpse of what you really want to  stare at as you stride past at speed as if en route to an important  rendezvous.

Whilst there I was pleased to find a couple of Chinese caffs open and  went and devoured a dirty great tureen of barbecued pork and wonton  noodle soup. I think I quite impressed everybody with my unusual use of  the chopsticks. (I can use them but my style is unorthodox. I works for me. It's a free  country. If I want to spill boiling briny broth down me best Sunday  jeans that's my problem isn't it  ?   Who you looking at La  ?     ?     ?   ) Whoops got  a bit carried away there. Fabbo food anyway, that will keep me going till  tonight I hoped. 

Returned to my hotel after spending a long time staring down towards the  Mersey knowing I did not have enough time to cross it today, but  remembered from the mists of time playing on the " beach" at Wallasey. I  dread to imagine what I could have contracted. Used to go swimming at  Guinea Gap baths. The sky was strange yellow #CC3300 colour as I rambled  back to Mount Pleasant and I regretted not having my camera with me to  snap the old painted sign on that crumbling building advertising a long  lost firm of eccles cake manufactures. Ah, eccles cakes.

Back into the hotel to sew a thousand sequins on me party frock, to  discover the door of my room is wide open, the light in the toilet  doesn't work, the bedclothes were obviously recycled from the much  lamented Army and Navy stores opposite Lewis's, no heating and many other  punter unfriendly problems. A quick altercation with the management and  I am transferred to a bigger , slightly less shabby but warmer ensuite  room.

Have a delicious hot shower, at least that worked and into my black tee  shirt and jeans, obligatory sartorial threads in the Gilbert household. I step outside , clutching my old schoolboy photos, camera, ciggies and,  after a brief stop to phone our kid up, wander to the Cracke. Our kid  was gob smacked to know I had met someone who had been at the old fella's  funeral. As I pass along my way I can't resist sidetracking into the  Phil. for a swift pint. So many nights spent there, on the circular  route from the Cracke, O'connor's and back to the Phil. It hasn't  changed much except for the overly keen barstaff who had obviously been  on a Bass Charrington charm school outing. I preferred the service with  a scowl of the old days. Still you can't stop progress can you  ?  

And then into the Cracke. I have been there over the years so was used  to the changes. I try to remember what it was like before the extension.  Like where was the old gent's bog and where did the most wonderful juke  box in the universe sit.

Straight away I meet the daughter of my Sheffield mate who now works  there and it's all kisses and hugs. Very bizarre for her to working  there as I remember her as a 3 year old princess, not the strapping lass  she is now. I notice, as we talk, that she has developed a convincing  scouse accent. I meet her man and understand why.

Suddenly I am surrounded by Liobians and the night becomes a collage of  conversations. "Where's Snelson" I ask and then spot the biblical figure  of himself.( It's the beard John. Very Chartlon Heston in the 10  Commandments!!!) Am amazed to meet the youthful and veritably cherubic  Iain Taylor who I did not think was coming. The best line of the night  to me was from Toddie. I got a bit confused about where he lived. He  told me he now lived in Germany. I replied " Bloody hell, Allan, have you come all that way just for the Liobian  Libations. You star" "No" he ripostes quick as flash. "I've come to get me divorce!!" And he had too. Wonderful stuff. 

Suddenly looming out of the fug was Willie Leece, still mellifluous after  all these years. Much catching up of mutual reprobates, a sad and funny  conversation. I wander round from group to group meeting all the faces I  know just as e-mail names. Bloody great! The night becomes blurred. Bore  people to death with my ancient photos( "Go way Gilbo you're not gonna  shows yer photies again, are yuh  ?   ") Snelson disappears without me saying  good-bye. I hadn't got to the point of slurring lachrymosely, "Your me  best mate John I've always have loved you"  like men do in their cups, But I am made up to be there.

At closing time, after Stan regaling us with his wonderful songs( Thanks  Stan it was wonderful) Willie and I and Geoff ramble of to the Everyman  for a last pint in the basement bar which I remember as being Hope Hall  club. I saw all sorts of people playing there, including a wonderful gig  by Alexis Korner and his Rhythm and blues all-stars( Jack Bruce on bass,  Dick Heckstall Smith on saxes, Herbie Goins on Vocals etc.- fab) All  that remained of the cellar club were the cast iron piers that held up  the ceiling. We wander back off, with me lusting after a meal of some  sort. After going into various closed Greekies I make for the Zorba, a  place I've been before. Lo and behold there is a gaggle of Liobians,  post trough. Kelly- Bootle, Ross , Taylor, Toddie et al. The waiter  won't serve me as it's too late but the lads feed me with there  leftovers. A round of Ouzo and a quick Yamas and it's time to lurch back  to my crumbling edifice of a hotel. I negotiate the walk back  successfully but fall at the last fence!!! What I did was trip on the  steps going up to the front door. The night porter comes out and scrapes  me off the floor. Makes the hotel look bad I thought having middle age  liobians spread-eagle themselves on the steps " That was quite spectacular that, Mr. Gilbert. I watched it on the  close circuit camera" he guffaws. I'll show you that in the morning" And he bloody did too.

Up to bed. Manage to negotiate the ancient art of getting the key in the  door and unlocking it. Bed . Bliss. As the arms of Morpheus enfolds me  a thousand thoughts cascade through my mind.  " Worra smart day" I mumble to myself as I lapse into unconsciousness.

In the morning I breakfast on a repaste of bacon, scrambled and fried  egg, fried tomatoes, tinned tomatoes, black pudding, mushrooms, fried  bread, sausage, waffles, beans, yogurt, corn flakes and tea. That'll do  for a starter I say to myself. The remaining slop of ale mixes uneasily  with my Ogre's brekkie. 

Pack me bag, pay my bill and watch my graceful pratfall on the video  replay from last night. The footage might end up on one of those video  programmes which seem to consist of people falling over in all sorts of  circumstances. They assured me that the tapes are wiped every 24 hours. Down to Lime street and back on the train home. It seems strange saying  home when I had just left my hometown. After a pleasant journey back  through the snow capped peaks, I arrive to find haven't got my door keys  with me. I never brought them. My wife is out at some sort of coffee  afternoon which usually consists of prurient discussion of men's sexual  failings, a schooner or six of bad sherry and an episode of an Australian  soap opera. I return to my local pub and reflect on my trip to the  liobian's bevvy up at the Cracke.

It was grand evening, and i feel I have exorcise some of my ghosts  concerned with my time at the school. talking to Joe Sweeney about  Malcolm Pascoe Smith cutting my hair was amazing. he AHD no inkling that  hit AHD happened and reciprocated my feeling s about what a twat that man  was.

To john Snelson i can only offer my sincere thanks for a great Cracke.  Don't do it again too soon though John as it cost me a bloody fortune. Bus up to my house to be greeted by a exuberant little boy thrilled to se  my again after such a huge length of time i.e. 36 hours. " daddy, daddy, Did Paul Mc Cartney come  ?   " No son But Stan Kelly did " Who's' Stan Kelly daddy  ?   " I'll tell you when your old enough!!!" Love peace and understanding Paul Gilbert