Apart from the large annual dinner, held at Anfield each year, various smaller reunions of Liobians have taken place in recent times.

For the last few years, a motley crew of us have met in the Vancouver area during the late spring. Several Liobians live in Canada, but others have flown there to join in the grand festivities. The event has always been a two day affair, beginning with drinks in the afternoon. This has either been in Bryce Kendrick's or Keith Dinwoodie's garden, or else in a room of a suitable establishment. Great merriment has always been the order of the day, as folk introduced themsleves to each other, after long forgotten years. Some have suffered the perils of a boat ride through the whaling areas of the nearby Gulf Islands to be there.

Others, like Stan K-B have undergone the ramifications of United States border controls, whilst some folk have made it part of a great holiday. Wives have decorated the proceedings with jollity. Indeed two of them, on one such occasion, were surprised to see each other again, having been friends long ago at Holly Lodge.

Then there are the first-time encounters, of historical nature: "Paul Spenley, I presume ?"
"No, I'm Iain Taylor!"

The Liobian Canadian gavel is then banged, and we all proceed to dinner in a well-groomed restaurant. The gavel was presented by Doug Whittaker for these occasions, and is kept in the custody of Norma Ashcroft. (Actually I bought it so that Norma can interrupt Ken and me, when we're having a few glasses, if she wants to get a word in.) We have never been let down over the standard of food presented to us, and all at a very reasonable price. We are all only too well aware of the efforts put in by Ken Ashcroft and Keith Dinwoodie to make the event happen. Tired out, eventually everyone is forced to go to bed for the night.

Often Paul Spenley needs to rise at some ungodly hour in order to catch a train to take him to his beloved Califormia. However the rest of us lie in until some sensible time, only to meet up at another establishment for a North American brunch. This sometimes takes place at a waterside restaurant; with splendid views of the snow clad mountains on Vancouver Island, on the other side of the Georgia Strait. Finally it comes time to say goodbye, and everyone vows to return again for another magnificent social gathering to which all Liobians are welcome.

Every year, the number of recidivists is supplemented by several newcomers, so we must be doing something well. Not to be outdone by our Canadian friends, Doug Whittaker has organised several Liobian reunions in London. Apart from a few scurries at Her Majesties' Tower when Paul Spenley has managed to put his wife on a bus, without himself getting on, we have generally met at the Victory Services Club, opposite Hyde Park. Although we have held dinners, sometimes the lounge bar has wet our whistles. This has more than satisfied our tastes and proved very economic on the pocket.

One afternoon, Stan K-B rolled in with smiling air, wearing his French beret and Anfield scarf, which I think was coloured red and white. Certainly there was no blue about it. Much to his consternation, everyone in the room was delighted. Indeed one curious club member sidled over, sat cross-legged on the floor, and remained spellbound with his lordship's whimsical words of wisdom. Iain Taylor and Geoff Southern looked somewhat puzzled. Alan Clegg turned to Geoff Kneen, but he had disappeared outside, worried in case a parking warden had noticed his car. John Missenden produced a shield displaying the Inny crest, which at least made us all seem respectable. Certainly it got a waitress running, wanting to be the first to take our photo.

Just for a change, we once met up in St Albans, at Doug's pen. Stan turned up with nearly half of his family, which almost required the hiring of a large hall. Certainly the pizzas had to stretch themsleves amongst us. (Actually Stan's daughter kindly helped me to cook them, whilst seeing that Stan's glass was suitably topped up with whisky.) A delightful new baby, who was promptly adopted by Stan as another step-granddaughter, brought Dave Watt along. So when the time came to disperse, we had engaged in much gurgling conversation.

We hope that others will volunteer to undergo the strains of meeting in London, and the club possesses rooms, suitable for a night's accommodation. It doesn't even matter if you suffer any impediment. Roy Barter nearly had to make do without his false teeth, after Customs tried to confiscate them whilst on his way to Canada.

Not to be undone or sidetracked by his mountaineering exploits, Mike Graham has laid on reunions in Carlisle for the past few years. Now that is so far up north, that many Liobians have to look it up on an atlas. However, unlike its eastern sister border town of Berwick, Carlisle does play in the English league, but then there's no knowing what goes on over on the other side of the Pennines. We meet on a Saturday afternoon in Wetherspoons, and one year there were very few of us around. Although trains often run late, we were a little puzzled until we realised that there were two Wetherspoons on the same road in Carlisle. Well it doesn't take an O level in Physics to work out that half of us were in one, and the other half were in the other.

Most of us arrive by train, with Paul Spenley often experiencing the joys of the Settle-Carlisle line. Geoff Kneen was meant to come that way, but the train got lost in Wolverhampton. Doug travels in first class opulence; using a cheap Virgin advanced ticket, only available to folk whose name begins with a W. The secrets of economic travel remain a mystery, known only to the initiated. (Actually I don't do it in one day because I stay B&B at the luxurious Graham abode.) Our advanced nuclear scientists, Richard Evans and Alan Clegg, always used to arrive late until they realised that travelling on the steam train around the coast was quicker than coming by boat.

The establishment is now beginning to look upon us with a certain amount of foreboding. "Not that lot again", they say. Every year we run one of their beers dry, leaving none for their more respectable customers. However, in spite of state of mind and body, no-one has yet managed to miss the last train home, at about six o'clock! Nevertheless Doug has managed to slip and fall over, after disembarking at the other end. - and he doesn't drink anything like as much as Paul!

We hope that Carlisle will host a motley crowd of Inny lads for many Novembers to come, and we promise that we will pay the fare on the train next time.

Liverpool is not to be outdone. Paul Spenley has organised many pub evenings for jolly buccaneers to attend. It is difficult to remember the names of all the venues - Dr Duncan's, The Dispensary, Ye Cracke, and many more. Over the years, many of us have met on these occasions over a glass or two, or three, or four, or more. Having passing my O level in maths a long time ago, I've forgotten how to count beyond four, so it's not my fault if I have too many, officer, is it  ?   Mr Cain, whoever he was, has delighted the hearts of many a Liobian.

Of course, the meet occasionally takes place in the Mount Street building, by kind permission of LIPA. However, you first have to be able to negotiate the strangeness of the lower or upper yard. This can be more difficult on the way out, for obvious reasons.

It would take too long to mention all the folk who come along, some of whom are interlopers from Shaw Street, of all places. However, there are some regular guys that are usually around, like Geoff Southern, George Sephton and Alan Lloyd - to name but a few. Paul will usually organise a gathering by request from anyone who knows he will be visiting the great city at an appointed time. (At least he has always done for me, so try him out - he's a great accommodating guy.)

Finally, there have been get-togethers at times elsewhere. Certainly the Eastern Canadian brigade, which includes Al Ward and Steve Graham, has made it to Toronto on more than one occasion. They look forward to Paul Spenley dropping by, before embarking on his grand trans-continental rail escapade again.

Some folk have met up, after millions of years, at occasions like 60th birthday parties. Usually these take place in Britain or the recent colonies. However Al Ward, Alan Cadel and Geoff Southern managed to meet up at Graham Baker's party in Texas. They dropped in, claiming that they thought they were invited as a result of some spurious correspondence on Snellie's site.

It's really great that a school, which closed over twenty years ago, has informal branches and meetings in so many places throughout the world. Long may it continue!

Doug Whittaker
January 2006