Let's move to the city Thatcher couldn't kill! This week: Liverpool

What’s it about?

Up in the north-west of England is the Tories’ bête noire, the working-class left-wing city they keep trying to kill but that will not die.

Churchill ordered gunships to train weapons on striking workers, Thatcher made sure there were no workers left to strike, but still it staggers on, kept alive by its own invulnerable self-importance. That and the fucking Beatles.

The docks have been converted to art galleries and fancy shops, it’s studded with grand buildings that owe it all to the slave trade, and every resident is convinced they have a great sense of humour. Which becomes wearing, over time. For example a day.

Any good points?

They’ve rebuilt a lot of it, whether from the Luftwaffe raids or Thatcherism. You’re no longer a short stumble in the wrong direction from a deserted, derelict street with a circle of locals closing fast. You’d have to drive for upward of five minutes to find that now.

The city is the UK’s number one spot for hen parties, capitalising on a long-standing reputation for drunken lawlessness.

As a local, you can benefit from this by drinking in a pub dressed up to have its own vibe that’s owned by one of four companies that own the lot, do one of the 48 escape rooms dotting the city, or have the most expensive breakfast you’ve ever had in your life. Outside London obviously.

There are also a couple of football teams based in the area. One of them used to be successful a long time ago, but nobody can remember which one.

Wonderful landscape?

The river Mersey is big. Even better, on the other side of it is the Wirral, where you can be glad you’re not.

Enjoy a stroll along the Albert Dock, home of the Tate and the fucking Beatles museum, a lovely modernised waterfront which also includes the Maritime Museum explaining how slavery built all this.

There are two cathedrals – one Gothic, one modernist – and plenty of places to go for a pint like the Philharmonic pub, where you can piss against the only Grade I National Heritage listed urinals in Britain, or The Poste House, a charming pub which was Hitlers favourite drinking spot when he visited the city as a young, terrible artist.

Hang out at…

Where you go on a night in Liverpool depends on how much self-respect you have.

To swill luminous alcohol from fish bowls there’s Concert Square, a city centre containment area made up of several different bars you can bounce between until you pass out in the street. If you’re cooler and less prone to shrieking, there’s The Baltic Triangle. A newly developed area of the city where you can overpay for craft beers.

For students there’s The Raz; you may remember entering, but never leaving. It’s actually a club called The Blue Angel, where according to legend you could once get a pint for 90p. That’s changed, but it’s all that has. The sticky carpets, pissy smell and sweating walls are all of 1960s vintage.

Where to buy?

Every inch of free space in the city centre has been snatched up by hotels and students, so city centre living is beyond your reach. You’ll have to hear the echoing screeches and luggage-wheeling rumble of the hen dos from afar.

Kensington’s close to the action. It’s also not too pricy for an area that is only 15 minutes away from Liverpool One, but that’s because your neighbours are either seven drama students or a large man with a large dog retailing small bags of substances not available legally.

Still that’s better than Croxteth, where the ice-cream vans used to sell smack.

From the streets:

Lucy Parry, aged 19, drama student: “It’s such a wonderful, vibrant place! Like combining a gap year in the Global South with going to uni! I’ll leave straight after graduation!”

Stephen Malley, aged 78: “I used to work down on the docks. We built this city with our bare hands. Now it’s the fucking Beatles Museum.”

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Period sex: do you absolutely have to? Are you sure? by the Mash sex columnist

SCARED of a little bit of blood? Not a modern, empowered, body-positive woman like you. You’re not cowed by the fact you’re feeling icky in more ways than one. 

But is it worth the mess? Can passionate lovemaking compensate for a bedspread that looks like passion, crimes of? Will you ever be able to use that towel again?

There are advantages to shagging when the crimson tide is high; above all, the satisfaction of proving what a sexual stalwart you are. Neither booze or sticky weather nor menstrual blood will stand in the way of your orgasms.

Or cramp, or tender tits, or a natural loss of libido during a heavy flow. But you’re up against all those things so the sex had better be pretty fucking good.

The advantages? No need to faff around with lube. Your gal is as wet as wet can be before you get started. Not with desire, because chances are she’s tired and bloated, but imagine what you like as you’re taking your dirty dip. Apart from murder.

And although pregancy’s unlikely, because your body couldn’t be sending a clearer signal that now is not the fucking time, your boyfriend’s still going to want to wear a condom. While, again, trying not to think of hitmen donning latex gloves and murder.

But with every thrust you’re both proving how woke and feminist you are: look at you, boning your way onto the right side of history! Even though you could just hold off, for 48 hours or so, and it could be so much cleaner and more enjoyable!

Because if you’re honest, one of you is worried about seeming gross and the other worried about seeming grossed out. You’re collectively using most of your brain space trying not to worry about the CSI nightmare you’re leaving. The journey to orgasm will be long and bloody.

So you can if you have to, and if you want to, and if you’re showing off about the fact that even heavy flow doesn’t put you off sex. Go for it if you really must. But accept that you won’t do it twice.