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About Liverpool

Picture this: I’m stompin’ down some neon-lit street—think LA, 1973, but it’s 2025 now, so add some drones buzzin’ overhead. I’m huntin’ for a story, somethin’ juicy, ‘cause I’m mad curious. “It’s all happening!”—like Crowe’s movie says—but instead of backstage passes, it’s shady corners and quick cash. I’m pissed, tho—why’s it gotta be so damn sneaky? Can’t folks just be straight up? Makes me wanna yell, “You’re out of order!” like Judy smackin’ her gavel.

The Process

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So, I grab my guitar, head out, and boom! First surprise of the day: the market on the main street. It’s like a mini carnival every Saturday. I’m strollin’ past the stalls, smellin’ all the fresh bread and pastries. I mean, who doesn’t love a good sausage roll, right? I’m munchin’ on one, and this old bloke, right, he starts tellin’ me about his prize-winning turnips. Like, mate, turnips? Really? But I nod along, tryin’ to be polite.

Unravelling the tale of York's gladiator bitten by a lion